


Come and Save Me (From Myself)

by Shattered_Mirrors_and_Lace



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bullying, Cutting, Depression, Friends to Lovers, Graphic Description, Hospitalization, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Please do not read of easily triggered, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Slow Build, Suicide Attempt, Trigger Warnings, Tw:mention of needles in Ch.4
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 05:00:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 42,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6360376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shattered_Mirrors_and_Lace/pseuds/Shattered_Mirrors_and_Lace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick’s tired. </p><p>He’s tired of the words, the kicks, the insults, the stares, the looks…he wants it all gone. He wants someone to hold him, to tell him everything's going to be okay, that he means more then what was whispered behind his back or what's littered on the school’s bashing page. He wants his mom...he wants Pete..., he just wants it all to <i> stop </i>...</p><p>But, when the one person he believed in lashes out with alcohol tainted venom dripping from his tongue, the words ringing in his ears <em>(<b>“Just <i>deal with it</i>, Patrick”</b>)</em>, Patrick takes matters into his own hands, and Pete is left to deal with the aftermath and the guilt. </p><p>Whoever said <i>"True love makes everything better"</i> needs to get punched in the throat for that lie.</p><p>[Heavy Trigger Warning for suicide attempt, graphic descriptions of bullying, self-harming, self-hate, mental breakdowns and needles. If easily triggered, please do NOT read. Stay safe, my loves!]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Ringing in My Ears Gets Violent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has been in the works for the last six months, I just havent had the time, until now, to add more and continue it on. That being said, this one is super angsty but it WILL have a happy ending, just much later on.
> 
> Please read tags and trigger warnings in summary, pretty please. 
> 
> [Heavy Trigger Warning for suicide attempt, graphic descriptions of bullying and self-harming. If easily triggered, please do NOT read. Stay safe my loves!]

_“Why do you have to go so far away…”_

_“U.C. is only about an hour, maybe hour and a half away, dude!” Pete laughed as he packed up some of his clothes into a suitcase, haphazardly tossing a few random items into it as he went._

_Patrick rolled his eyes and sighed sadly, the 14 year old looking over his best friend excitedly rummage through his closet from where he was perched on the 18 year old’s desk. “I know, but still,” he mumbles, his eyes hiding under the bill of his trucker hat._

_Pete stopped and looked over his shoulder at his best friend, screw the age difference, Patrick had always been there for him. “Hey, its not like I’m leaving the state, man,” Pete reassured with a smile, standing from his spot and walking over to the teenager. “Besides, I’ll visit on weekends when he don’t have games, and maybe I’ll kidnap you so you can chill out with me on campus.” He pulled on the bill of Patrick’s hat, pushing it up to expose bold frames and green, blue multicolor eyes that have always captivated Pete._

_Patrick shoves him away playfully, but Pete comes back, just like he always does and tucks a lock of strawberry blond hair behind his ear. “Besides, Lunchbox, it’s your freshman year of high school, man! It’ll be awesome.”_

_Patrick scoffed. “Yeah, it’ll be great seeing Shane Morris again after a year…his buddy Vic made sure to make my life a living hell in junior high as a reminder…”_

_“Fuck Morris, the kid is a fucktard and you shouldn’t listen to him, Trick. If he’s gonna mess with you, you gotta tell someone…”_

_“Like anyone would help-”_

_“High school isn’t Junior High, man. New people, new school year, it’s a fresh start.”_

_Patrick sighed, fiddling with a those thread on his jeans. “I guess…” but it wasn’t fair, he wanted to add, he wanted to be in high school with Pete. Not have him ship off to college on a soccer scholarship an hour and a half away._

_“Hey,” Pete said again, a warm hand on his shoulder. “You know I’m always a phone call away, dude. I’m not gonna leave you high and dry, you’ve got me,” he says with a typical Wentz grin, and Patrick can’t help but smile back, even as Pete pulls him into a hug._

_“I’ll always be here for you, Patrick.”_

…

He winces as he’s roughly shoved against the locker by Morris, the sound of his shoulder hitting the think metal resonating down the busy hallway, and no one seems to care.

“Where the hell are you goin’, Stump? ” smirked Morris as he crowded into Patrick’s space. The 17 year old junior glared back, adjusting his one arm grip on his Physics book.

“None of your damn business,” Patrick muttered as he tried to get away, ignoring the throbbing in his shoulder.

Morris tsked as he caught Patrick’s backpack as he tried to push past him and his three other friends. “Now now now, no need for that! Just hold up a second, Stump…I just gotta ask you somethin’.”

He hated the senior, he wanted to punch him, like the last time, but he ended up getting suspended for that and the last thing he wanted was to get suspension…his mother would murder him. He tried pushing past Morris again, but was shoved back, his time, his head colliding loudly with the locker.

Morris eyed him with a false smile and a predatory look, “I just gotta ask…how much?”

Patrick learned over the years never to show emotion when dealing with Morris, he always used it against him. So he simply glared back as his voice was flat and cold. “Excuse me?”

Morris laughed. “How much? I heard you’ve got a mouth made for sucking cock, just wanted to know how much a blow job would cost, you know, so I can help you with business,” he winked darkly as the guys behind him laughed and made crude gestures.

Patrick felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment as Morris continued, his voice a little louder as to make sure everyone could hear. “Heard you sucked off Wentz whenever he comes down to visit. That's gotta be the only reason why he would even hand out with a pathetic piece of shit like you. Do you swallow for him like a good boy? Do you charge extra just to swallow, Stump?” There’s more laughter and more crude gestures, some of the guys behind Morris making gagging noises. He feels more eyes on him as he pushes through Morris again and is finally free.

As he walks down the hall, he see other students look at him, some with pity, some with disgust, and his cheeks feel on fire. He’s grateful that his hat his hiding the tears that are threatening to fall from his eyes from anger and embarrassment.

When he finally gets to his Physics class, he’s late. With his head tucked low, he wordlessly makes his way towards his seat in the back of the class, away from the lingering eyes of other students. He settles in and doesn’t even take off his backpack, simply folds his arms in front of him and buries his head in them for the rest of the class. No one, not even the teacher, pays him any mind. He takes out his phone and types a quick message to Pete.

_‘Can I call you?’_

About twenty mins later he gets a response.

_‘Sry, got practice, wont b able 2 talk…whats up?’_

Something in Patrick stomach clenches and goes cold as his lip trembles slightly.

_‘Nothing, just wanted to talk.’_

He doesn’t wait for another response, and doesn’t know what to feel when he doesn’t even get a text from Pete by the end of class. It’s 2:54pm…Pete has his ‘free’ time before his 4pm practice.

When school let’s out, it’s 4:15pm, and Pete still doesn’t respond…Patrick goes home and locks himself in his bedroom. He hurls his backpack across the floor and searches frantically for his tin case, the one that fit perfectly in the palm of his hand and was easy enough to hide under the mattress. In it, three individual packs of antiseptic wipes that he's stolen from the nurses office, some butterfly closure bandaids, and a glimmering stainless steel razor.

The metal feels cold between his fingertips, and feels even colder once he wipes down the edge of the blade with a wipe. He hurriedly shoves down his pants, leaving him in only his boxers, he pulls up the leg of it on one side, exposing soft milk white thighs littered with pink and fades scars, some darker than others. Some are in neat little rows, others in crisscrossed, hatched lines. Long, short, thick, thin. Deep, shallow.

 Patrick doesn’t think twice as his vision becomes blurry and he places the cold steel against the warmth of his thigh. ‘ _Cut on thighs to hide from the eyes_ ’ he thinks to himself with a belittling laugh as he presses the blade to his skin, decorating soft white with bright red. The first cut is light just to silence the words ringing in his ears, the second one deeper blacking out the image of Morris gazing down at him, the eyes of other students following his every move, the third, just a little bit more pressure, to numb the day away, to numb the pain.

Tears slide down his cheeks when he’s finished and he just sits there, on the floor of his bedroom, pants off, thighs bleeding, and razor in his hands. After ten minutes, his phone gives off a familiar ring. He reaches for his phone and answers it.

“Hello?”

 _“Hey Sweetie, just wanted to make sure you made it home okay,”_ his mom from the other line.

Patrick looks down at the mess of scars on his thighs and the warm crimson spilling gently from fresh, long cuts. He lets his fingers run over raised scars, just skimming the edge of his new wounds.

“Yeah, Mom,” he says to his mom, as silent tears fall from his eyes and land on his scars. “I’m okay.”

…

_‘Um…can I call you?’ Patrick pens out in a text during his sophomore English when the teacher had her back turned to the class._

_The response he gets is almost immediate. ‘Sry, in Practice buddy…whats up ‘Trick?’_

_Patrick sighs and looks sadly down at his phone. He feels like such a idiot for wanting to vent to Pete, to tell him how Morris shredded his History paper before class and how the teacher was in a pissy mood today and was far from forgiving, telling him if he turned it in tomorrow he would get deduced a letter grade from the final grade for lateness. He want to scream about how everyone saw Blake, another student, push him against the locker telling him that he should ‘Just beat the shit out of you. That would teach you a lesson Fag,’ and however everyone saw but no one said_ **anything** _. He wants to yell and tell Pete that he’s tired, he’s tired of school, of these people, of life…_

_‘Nothing, just wanted to talk.’_

_Almost instantly, his phone lights up with a call. Luckily for him, he has his phone on silent. He answers it then hides it in his hoodie pocket, quietly asking the teacher if he could go to the restrooms. Ms. Jones nods wordlessly as she passes out the class assignments._

_Once free from class, he makes a quick detour to the side door leading outside. He plucks out his phone and holds it to his ear. “I thought you had practice?”_

_“For you, ‘Trick, practice can always wait,” he hears Pete say with a grin. It makes him smile in return as he slides down the brick wall of the school. “You know I’m always here for you dude.”_

_Patrick nods, but then realizes that Pete can’t exactly see him. “I know.”_

_“So spill, what’s up, man. There’s never no ‘I just wanted to talk’ with you dude. I know you_ way _to well to know that when you text that, something’s wrong.”_

 _Patrick feels embarrassed for getting caught red-handed, and thinks about saying “I can’t just not want to talk with my best friend” but then decides against it. Truth is always better than lies, at least that’s what his mother taught him. “It’s…” he starts, sighing, but he knows his time is limited. “It’s so stupid Pete…” he tells Pete about Morris, about Blake, and that fact that **no one**_ _does anything. He’s tried talking to principles, but all that did was get Morris even more pissed and earn him the title of snitch in several student circles and cliques._

_“I…I don’t know about this Pete…” he finally says, slumping against the wall._

_“Hey, hey, hey. Don’t you dare think like that, Stump. You’ve got more good in your pinky than Shane fucking Morris has is his entire body. I swear when we have our summer soccer tournament, I’ll fucking kick his ass and make it look like an accident...” Pete mutters into the line._

_“Pete…”_

_“Please don’t start thinking like that, man, you’re too fucking golden for that shit…”_

_“I just wish I was older…like already in college so I wouldn’t have to deal with this…”_

_“I know it’s tough man, but you gotta stick it out…I know you can Lunchbox. I’m coming home this Friday night and you and me will go out on the town and I’ll turn that frown upside down, even if I have to act like a fool to do it.” Patrick chuckles at that, “We’ll make a weekend out of it, how does that sound man?”_

_Patrick smiles softly. “Sounds great.”_

_He could practically hear Pete smiling from the other end. “I’m glad.” There a brief moment of silence that falls between them, before Pete speaks up. “I’m always gonna be here for you Patrick, whenever you need me...I’ll always be here.”_

_“Promise?” Patrick asks, before he realized it came out of his mouth, noting how child-ish it sounded. But Pete, never missing a beat, answered back in a way that made Patrick’s chest feel like bursting._

_“Cross my heart.”_

…

Then came the pictures.

Patrick didn’t know how they were taken or who had started circulating them, but what he did now was that now a picture of him in his knees, close to one of his tormentor’s crotch, the perpetrator’s hand grasping his hair tightly, was now all over the school’s no-so-secret bashing page on social media. Patrick could only assume that the picture was taken earlier that day when Morris and his thugs had corner the strawberry blond in a remote hallway before class and had shoved him to his knees, and then they backed off, laughing.

Now it made sense as to why Patrick thought he heard the flash of a camera or snarky remarks from several others about how “ _much of a slut he looks on his knees”_. And now, those pictures were plastered everywhere, along with his number underneath said picture and the caption _“Stump’s a Slut for the right about of $$$$”_.

He didn’t hear about the pictures right away, but he noticed people gawking at him more than usual after lunch; the pointed fingers and the hushed whispers that followed him through the day, only making him tug down his hat even more. It wasn’t until much later that evening, in the safety of his room, guitar in his lap, he got a text from an unknown number with a link to the picture and a proposition: _“whats ur $$?”_ with a little tongue sticking emoji attached to it.

Confused, he clicked on the link.

He really shouldn’t have.

Everything started feeling cold as he looked at himself on the screen of his phone.

There were people commenting left and right about it, some mean, others degrading, very few coming to defense. But the comment totally already hitting 200, Patrick just wanted to shut down a cry.

_‘What a slut’_

_‘Always knew he was a little whore’_

_‘See Jenna! I told you he was the one sucking off the soccer team’_

_‘What how much he charges for a fuck’_

_‘Guys leave him alone!’_

_‘this isn’t cool, Morris, u sick fuck, what’s wrong w/ u?’_

_‘What a Whore’_

_‘Slut’_

_‘he should just go and DIE’_

_‘Hey Patrick, just kill urself’_

_‘always the quiet 1s are the dirtiest whores’_

_‘poor kid, someone needs to take this down NOW.’_

_‘y? its hilarious, stump the slut lol’_

He starts to panic, mind racing. Why the fuck would Morris do this? _What the hell does he have to fucking gain from this?_

Patrick’s taken out of his train of thought by a continuous series of dings to his phone, all numbers he doesn’t know as texts light up his screen one after another. They’re so fast and so many that he only catches glimpses of some that pop up, many of them similar to the comments on the pictures, rude, degrading, sinister, mocking him.

_‘How much for a fuck?’_

_‘Stump the Slut of Willamette High’_

_‘do you take it up the ass, fag?’_

_‘$$ for a quickie’_

_‘u swallow like a good whore?_

_‘always knew u were a slut_

_‘y bother, just off urself dude’_

_‘faggot!’_

_‘u fat fuck go kill urself’_

_‘no wonder u don’t have a gf, who wants a whore for a bf’_

_‘just die fag’’_

He starts to hyperventilate, his phone erupts with dings, message after message, and it’s getting too much. He starts to feel the walls of his room close in on him, everything is getting smaller and he can’t breathe, God, why can’t he _breathe?_

He reaches for the tin container, hidden secretly from his mom, from the world, and holds it in his hand, clutching it for dear life as his phone beeps relentlessly with every incoming text and notification. His mind takes him back to the nameless people in the hallways, to the looks of disgust, sneering grins, and piercing eyes. Patrick’s thoughts go back to Morris, and begin on his knees, tears in his eyes from how hard one of his goons was holding on to fine stands of strawberry blonde hair, the shoves, the kicks, their insults…

It’s too much.

He opens the tin and is greeted to a familiar gleam, a dull light shining in the dim of his room. He wants to make the looks go away, wants the voices to disappear and never return. Patrick just wants to hide and never come back out, and his chest hurts, his heart hurts.

He hesitates as he reaches for the razor, thinking of the way the steel against his skin would silence insults and glares, thinking about how it would numb him to the world and maybe, just maybe, he can make it through the night, maybe cry to his mom…

His mom…

Patrick thinks about her, how she’s always been there for him. There are somethings he’s never dreamed of telling him mom, like the scars on his thighs and hateful words and situations Morris and his goons put him through, he didn’t think she could bear it knowing that her baby was suffering. But she had an inking. He knew it from the time he came home and was greeted with an ice pack for his bruised cheek in middle school, how she would gently question, never pushing, as to why his backpack was always torn and broken. She knew. And she tried to help, talking to the school principal without him knowing until that night a dinner, letting him know that it was “ _okay to talk to me Sweetie. There’s nothing you can say or do that would make me love you any less…”_

He wasn’t sure if she would keep her stance if she found out the truth.

He didn’t know if he could break his mother’s heart like that.

Patrick groaned in frustration, he feels his eyes burn up with tears as he buries his fingers in his hair, pulling tightly enough to hurt. All he can think of is the gleaming razor in the tin and how he just wants to make it all, the words, the kicks, the insults, the stares, the looks, everything, he wants it all gone.

_“I’m always gonna be here for you Patrick, whenever you need me.”_

Pete…Maybe…maybe he could talk to Pete, the older boy was always there for him when he needed it, and maybe now, more than anything, Patrick just needs to someone to listen…

He thinks of his best friend as he reaches for his phone, tin laying open and razor untouched as he ignored the incoming flood of texts and calls and simply clicked on Pete’s contact. He knew it was Friday, and it was late, but maybe, just maybe, Pete would answer.

Patrick was never one to pray, but he prayed to whatever deity that would hear him out as the line rang. “Please, please, Pete…please pick up…please-”

_“Hey, you’ve reached Pete! Sorry I couldn’t answer, but if you leave your name and number, I’ll get back to you asap.”_

Patrick cursed under his breath and re-dialed, but not before seeing picture sent to him via text; the same picture that was plastered online and on his facebook page, but with crudely drawn dicks and in bright bold letters _“FAG”_. He deleted it as he selected Pete’s contact once again, waiting as it rang.

_“Hey, you’ve reached Pete! Sorry I-”_

He called one last time, ignoring the buzzing of texts, tears welling up in his eyes as he squeezed his eyes shut, his head hurting and his chest constricting… ‘ _Come on Pete…please’_ He had to answer, he has to…

 _“ ’ello?”_ came on the other end slightly slurred, chatter and loud music filtering in the background.

“Pete…Pete I-” he tries desperately, the words stilling in throat as the tears leak from his eyes. He can’t keep this in anymore…he can’t. “Pete…please…”

“ _What do you_ want _Patrick?”_ comes over the line, the older boy’s voice dripping with annoyance as more voices come through the line.

“I…I need help…” there’s a constant dinging in his ear as the messages keep coming in. He doesn’t dare glance at them, he can’t this, not by himself….“Please Pete…”

“ _Patrick, really? I’m not going to keep babying you, dude, my…my world doesn’t fucking revolve around_ you _…”_

It leaves Patrick’s chest feeling cold, a gut wrenching feeling in the pit of his stomach as his eyes shoot open…no…no please…

“Pete, I don't know…I don't...I want to…”

There’s a soft feminine giggle coming through the receiver now, before Pete speaks, his voice harsh and dripping with venom.

**“ _Fucking_ deal _with it, Patrick”_**

And the line goes dead.

And everything feels numb as the tears keep falling, the phone keep dinging and Pete’s voice is ringing in his ears, words burning his skin to the bone, as he feels lost.

_“I’m always gonna be here for you Patrick, whenever you need me.”_

That….that was a lie…he was nothing but a burden to Pete…a pity case….and that’s all he’ll ever be…a burden….

He gives one last longing glance to his phone, Pete’s contact right below this thumb, messages still coming in at lighting speeds….it just doesn’t stop…

_“Fucking deal with it, Patrick”_

He reaches for the open tin beside him, a glimmering blade cold between his fingertips as rips off his jacket, exposing pale arms, bare and free of marks because he’s _careful_ …he doesn’t have to be careful now…not anymore…

“ _I’m not going to keep babying you”_

He lets the razor kiss the fragile skin on his wrist, applying a slight amount of pressure as he pulls the razor across his wrist, a trail of red falling in its wake as he continues. One cut isn’t enough to silence the words in his head or to make the noise go away.

He runs the blade across his skin more, vertically, until he knows he’s cut a little too deep and far too much, red blooming from his wrist like paint dropping in water, but the noise silences for a bit, not enough, never enough. Pale skin stained with warm crimson, heart racing in his ears, his body numb to the pain as his mind floods with the tainted words and piercing gazes of everyone at school, of the venom in Pete’s worlds…

He doesn’t know what prompts him to text a single phrase to Pete in that moment, his fingers reaching blindly for the phone of the floor as he types out with shaky fingers and tear glazed eyes “ _Im sorry”_ because he knows he doesn’t deserve Pete, he doesn’t deserve to look up of the older boy, to call him his friend, to even have the _slightest_ inkling of possibly having Pete as _more than just a friend_ ….

 _“My world doesn’t fucking revolve around_ you _…”_

He doesn’t deserve anything…

With a weak hand, he presses the blade to his other wrist, steel still cold against the warmth of his skin.

When he’s done, tears streaming down his face, he feels so lost, and empty, everything is numb and Patrick couldn’t bring himself to care, until he catches slight of a picture frame on his nightstand, a photo of him and his mother, his older siblings smiling beside him…Part of him wants someone to help, wants someone to come in a rescue him, to tell him that it’s going to be okay, take him away and never return….But he doesn’t know of he could believe them.

There’s a childlike fear of the unknown that hits him as he glances down at the blood on his wrist, of the razor still between his fingertips. He wants he mom, but he doesn’t want her to see him like this…but he wants her, want to curl into her and forget about the world, to have her sing to him, and run her fingers through his hair like she used to do when he was younger…he wants her so much…

He thinks of her as he reaches for his phone and taps on her contact; she was working the late shift tonight, she wouldn’t be back until 4am but he still had too…

_“Patrick? Everything okay, son?”_

He can’t talk, he’s stunned, because all he can think about is silencing the noise in his head and the words that ring on his phone in text and on comments online, and he feels his eyes burn as he breathes shakily into the phone, warmth flowing down his arms as his body feels fuzzy…

_“Sweetie, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”_

“M-mom…”

 _“Baby what happened?”_ she attempts to calm him.

“M-m-mommy….p-please…I- I want i-it to s-stop,” he feels a fresh wave of tears start running down his cheek, as his phone constantly buzzes in the back ground teasing burning words and suggestive comments filled with animosity, and the a razor still between his fingertips

“ _Rick, tell me what’s wrong baby…are you hurt?”_

“Yes,” he whispers into the receiver. He feels small, like he’s five years old and is scared of the dark, scared of the raging storm outside, except, he’s 17 and still terrified, not of the storm, but of the thoughts in his head, of the hope to make sure he never gets bullied or teased again…of the fact that he’s already there. “Mom…I-I’m sorry”

The line is silent, he knows she’s on the other end. He waits for her to yell, to tell him that he’s an idiot, to tell him that he better be joking, but none of that comes, instead, a very calm a soothing voice tinged with fear and worry come over the line, and makes the tears come down harder.

_“Patrick please, I love you, I’ll be there soon, please, baby, don’t do anything, we’ll figure this out, I’ll be there soon.”_

“M-m-mom…”

 _“Sweetie please, I love you, please I’m leaving right now I’ll be there soon…”_ And the line goes dead.

His body begins to feel cold moments later as blood pools in neat little puddles on the hardwood flooring of his room. He wants someone to hold, to tell him everything’s going to be alright. But he knows things will be better off; he won’t be a victim, he won’t have to suffer anymore at the hands of cruel classmates or of the fucking world.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed, seconds or maybe minutes, before his body feels heavy and his head goes dizzy, his vision blurring as breathing gets more and more difficult. He thinks his hears his name from downstairs, as he closes his eyes, he hears a bang on the door, before his mother’s anguish screams of _“Oh my God!! Patrick, no! My baby!…”,_ her arms wrapping around him as he feels her hold him, applying pressure to his wrist in an attempt to slow the bleeding as she yells at someone to get help…

He thinks of Costello lulling him and Pete’s smile before everything gets too heavy and he’s slowly  floating away in a river of pure…

…dark….

 …

Pete is woken up by a familiar buzzing in his pants, his head and mouth feel full of cotton, the sour taste of liquor and smoke on his tongue. He vaguely remembers the party from last night; he recalls the booze, the thick smoke in the air, and the dancing tempting bodies around him, particularly one girl who was a giggling mess hanging over him, whispering things she would _love_ to do to him with saccharine words, sugar-coated lips, and suggestive touches …

He also vaguely remembers a phone call, him telling the person on the other line, with acid on his tongue, to deal with it…he feels horrible about that, and makes a mental note to sincerely apologize to whoever it was.

The buzzing in his pocket doesn’t cease and with a groan, and a pounding in his skull, he reaches and fishes out his phone, not paying attention to the caller.

“ ‘ello?” he answers, groggy, head pulsating as he flinches away from the sunlight filtering through his window. The 22 year old had no idea how the hell he got back to his apartment, but he really wasn’t about to question when his own mother hisses at him over the phone.

_“Why the fuck haven't you answering your fucking phone?”_

Pete flinches at his mother’s tone and the expletives that he’s pretty sure he’s never heard her say to him. “Mom?”

_“Peter I’ve been trying to get a hold of you since last night! Where were you?!”_

He’s at a lost for a moment as he glances back at the phone for a moment, wondering if the woman on the other end was really his mother; she’s never like this, but she sounds stressed and worried, and if it was true that she had been calling him since last night, he doesn’t exactly blame her for it…

“I was out with some friends, my phone must have been off…” he somewhat lies easily, because he _was_ with friends, just also with a good amount of people he _didn’t_ know too…and there was liquor involved as well, but he wasn’t about to mention that.

In all actuality, he needed sometime to not think about his ‘dilemma’; trying to get his mind off a certain _someone_ whom he knew would never return his affections, not even after all those years…even if _they_ did, he would be considered a creeper… _‘You need to drink the kid away, Wentz,’_ he hears Ray Toro, his teammate tell him, shoving a beer into his hand. _‘You talk about the kid like he’s hung the moon…but yet you’re all mopey because you haven’t even tried anything, just forget about him and have fun.’_ He tried, he really did…

Gabe, his other teammate, tried to be a little more helpful. _‘Just talk to the kid, hermano…Nunca sabes…you’ll never know until you ask, he sounds like he’s into you too…”_

But he didn’t listen; liquor outweighed reason and rationality every time, he should have known better.

His attention turns back to his mother as she speaks, a shaky sigh heard as she begins in a low and serious voice that also scares the living daylight out of Pete.

“ _You need to come home, now Peter…You need to come to St. Mercy’s._ ”

The soccer player’s stomach drops to his feet. “The hospital?” his heart begins to race as worry sets in and he sits up a little straighter in bed. “Are you okay?” he begins to ask, rushed and panicked. “Is Dad okay…Andy, Hil?”

 _“No Pete, we’re fine…it’s…”_ There’s another silence on the line, and Pete’s drawing a blank before his mother’s voice comes over the line, even and low. “ _It’s Patrick.”_ Pete’s heart fucking stops and as his breath catches in his throat; the forever imprinted image of the kid he left behind in Williment, of weekends spent cruising in Chicago sharing pizzas, a small, shy smile as he catches Pete’s eyes watching him as he sings along to Green Day or Bowie in the car, midnight calls that lasted hours and hugs that should not have lasted as long as they should’ve all because _Pete_ couldn’t bare the thought of letting this kid with a Golden soul go…

“Patrick? Mom, what happened to Patrick, is he okay?” He’s already rushing to find his keys and his wallet, the kid with a beautiful smile and eyes as bright as stars when he’s singing or playing guitar…He needs to get to him, fast. He’s already pulling out a fresh set of clothes to change into when the next thing he hears over the phone makes his stop dead in his tracks, and his veins go cold.

“ _Pete_ _… Patrick tried to kill himself last night.”_

Pete’s phone crashes to the floor.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry...I really, really am.
> 
> Well, yikes. This is definitely one of my more depression fics, but as I said above there WILL be a HAPPY ending, I assure you. This fic will probably be no long, just a warning (it was orginally set to be three when I first posted this, but that didn't happen lol). I'm sending every single one of you major hugs after this chapter, but it will get better. Comments, feedback, and kudos are very much appreciated (especially for this one, I was really iffy about posting it) and if any of you need hugs or tissues or a shoulder to cry on (or someone to yell at) make sure to stop by my [Tumblr](http://shatteredmirrors-and-lace23.tumblr.com/) , I'll sometimes post snippets of upcoming fics on there, especially for 'In the Breaking' and my Coffeeshop AU, an any other random fic idea I may come up with. As for those named two fics, keep an eye out for updates around mid-April =)
> 
> Thank you for reading! xoxo


	2. Last Year's Wishes are This Year's Apologies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is un-beta'd, so all mistakes are mine
> 
> Enjoy =)

He’s in the waiting room, slouched in a hard uncomfortable plastic chair away from others, hoodie pulled over his unwashed hair, as he waits for his mother to collect him.

It’s quiet and it’s never-wracking, simply waiting, and unable to do nothing. Before he left his apartment, he checked his phone, and sure enough, his mother had called him 14 times, along with about 20  text messages ranging from various form of  _“Call me”_ to “ _Call me as soon as you get this Pete”_   to _"I swear to everything holy in this world, CALL ME SON"_.

While going through his texts, he noticed one unopened text from Patrick, about 45 minutes before his mom’s first phone call last night. Hell, he hadn’t even seen until about an hour ago.

 _“Im sorry”_  

It was simple, short, but now, knowing that had happened, was a hot knife in his chest, straight through his heart. 

What he also noticed as a call from the teenager that was answered, and then it call came flooding back to him, guilt freezing his insides like an arctic chill.

“ _Pete…Pete I-_ ” he sounded scared…why didn’t he fucking realize it.. “ _Pete…please…”_ But instead of listening to his gut and asking him what was wrong, the alcohol coursing through his veins reminded him of why he was drinking in the first place… _I had to drink him out of my system_ …He snapped, alcohol and denial fueling his words; he swears he didn’t mean to.

 _“I…I need help…”_ he can vaguely recall him pleading…why did he need help? Were the demons in his head getting too big. Tears silently followed the sharp curve of his cheek as Patrick’s desperate voice rings in his mind. _“Please Pete…”_

“ _Patrick, really? I’m not going to keep babying you, dude, my…my world doesn’t fucking revolve around_ you _…”_

He slouches more in his seat, curling into himself as the hazy memories of their call repeat mercilessly in his head. _But my world does revolve around him…I just didn’t want to admit it…_

“ _Pete, I don't ....I want to…”_ Pete’s lost in his thoughts as the call plays like a record in the head. _Patrick…did- did you really want to hurt yourself?_

**“ _Fucking_ deal _with it, Patrick”_**

“Fuck…fuckfuckfuck!” he whispers harshly under his breath, his body tensing as tears continue to fall from whiskey colored eyes. He didn’t mean it…he didn’t want this to happen…

“Pete?”

His head shoots up to catch sight of his mom. It’s odd when he thinks about it, seeing his mom out of her work scrubs in _her_ hospital on top of that. But she’s not working right now, she’s here as _family_ , and it’s fucking surreal. He doesn’t bother to dry his tears on his sleeve, instead lets himself fall into his mother’s shoulder for a moment before she leads him to the elevator, flashing her badge to the security guard at the podium before the enter.

The silence is deafening, but his mom is quick to fill him in as they take a silent ride up to the 8th floor.

“They have him in ICU… Trisha and I got to him just in time. He called Trisha during our shift.”

“How bad was it?” his voice is dry and scratchy in the steal elevator, but his mom doesn’t pay him much mind, or at least pretends not to notice how broken he sounds.

Mrs. Wentz hesitates for a moment before looking over at her son. “Pete…”

“How bad was it, mom?”

She sighs before she caves, seeing that it would be no use to hide it from her son. “He cut on the inside of his forearms, lengthwise. He lost a lot of blood, and he had to have twelve stitches in each arm." She paused to gauge his reaction before she continued, knowing her Pete wanted to hear the rest, at least to prepare himself. "He was about two centimeters away from really damaging some tendons, and if it has been deeper, he could have cut into his radial artery…”

Pete stays silent, an image of Patrick lost and bleeding makes his head and heart fell like its exploding in the most painful way possible. It’s getting too much to bare, so much so that he just wants to sob and fall into a corner and not come out, but he doesn't. he can't break down now...he shouldn't be allowed to break down after what he had some part in doing.

 _‘You’re to blame for this, you know’_ whispers a voice in his head, venom dripping from the words.

“Why?” he looks up at his mom, ignoring the thoughts in his head. “Why’d he do it?”

His mom goes silent again once more, clearly debating if she should tell him. “Police and school officials are looking into it…Patricia had told me Patrick had been having issues at school again. She would ask him if everything was okay, and he would say things were fine. He never said a word and she believed him even though she felt that something was up…Apparently whatever was going on at school got completely out of hand. They’re looking into it as a cyberbullying case.”

“What else?”

“That’s all I can tell you, honey.”

The doors open and Mrs. Wentz is the first to exit. He follows her willingly down a corridor maze Pete knows as the ICU floor; it’s where his mom and Patrick’s mom work, where they met and became instant friends almost 20 years ago. It’s familiar to him, in that this was always the place he would come to for his mom, hanging out in the nurses’ station or napping the breakrooms. He never thought he would be here for an actually patient, much less that patient being Patrick.

Their footsteps echo loudly as they walk through the quiet corridor, heading to the last room on the right, and it suddenly becomes all too real. In the passing window of the room, blinds slightly opened looking in, he sees a familiar slouched figure of a woman beside the hospital bed, clutching onto a pale hand for dear life.

Mrs. Wentz turns to her son, whose expression in blank and unreadable as he stands stone still by the window. “Pete…you don’t have too…”

“I...Mom I gotta,” he cuts in quietly. His mom looks hesitant for a moment before she caves and nods, motioning for him to come in as she knocks softly on the door.

Patricia Stump looks like she hasn’t slept in years as she clutches her youngest child’s hand while using her free hand to card her fingers through strawberry blond hair, similar to her own. Her eyes are rimmed red and shining with tears as she desperately clings to her child’s hand as it lies limp on the bleached white sheets. This isn’t the soft, yet strong willed woman Pete had known for almost his entire life, this wasn’t the Trisha Stump that would act like a second mother to him, who trusted her youngest son with him on weekends, who always offered a helping hand, and ritually had coffee with his mother ever Saturday morning while he and Patrick played, even as they got older.

This woman before him was tired, nearly broken, but yet, still holding on to the shell of her son for dear life.

His attention then turned to the figure laying down in the too big, too white bed, looking far too pale and far too small. His gut was twisting in the most agonizing way as he looked at Patrick, skin holding a slight ashy hue, as his eyes, beautiful blue-hazel, closed shut, lashes fanning against his pale cheeks. There’s a mask over his nose and mouth, IVs and needles stuck in his arms, tubes leading up the saline solutions and blood bags. But what really made the cold in Pete’s veins crash over him tenfold was the stark white bandages wrapped from wrist to about two inches below his elbow on both of the teenager’s arms.

Pete felt numb as tears welled up in whiskey colored eyes once more, his expression flat. _Why did you do this ‘Trick…why…_

A harsh whispered of a thought pushed to the forefront of his mind, shaking him to he very core. _‘You told him to deal with it…so he did…’_

But no…not like this… _I didn’t mean it…_

Patrick’s mom must have seen his expression, the hurt and the devastation in his eyes as she gently removed herself from her son’s still form to embrace the older boy in a hug, a motherly hand coming to cradle the back of his neck as Pete’s face fell into her shoulder, trying his hardest to hold back tears.

“He’s alive Pete…he’s going to make it,” he hears Patricia whisper into his hair, tears audible in her words. _But I made him do this…_ he wants to scream, but it gets lodged coming out, instead, simply nods against her shoulder as his own mother comes and puts a comforting hand on his shoulder.

_I don’t deserve any of this…don’t you understand…._

“Pete,” starts his mother, eyes looking a little teary, something he doesn’t think he’s ever since before; his mom is strong, keeps her emotions in check after years of being a nurse and seeing everything under the sun…so is Patricia…she’s just as strong as his mom, two of the strongest people he’s ever known…But to see Ms. Stump so broken and haunted, it’s too much to fucking bare.

“ _Trisha and I got to him just in time”_ he recalls his mom telling him in the elevator, meaning Ms. Stump was the one to find Patrick, she was the one to find him bleeding out with gashes on his arms, she probably even held him while she fought both her mother’s instinct and her nurse’s training to help her son…

“Do you think you’ll be okay staying with Patrick for a little bit? I’m going to take Trisha down to the cafeteria to get something to eat-”

He doesn’t hesitate to answer with a quiet “Yeah, of course” before Patrick’s mom weakly interjects.

“Dale, no, it’s okay..”

“Trisha, you need to eat, Patrick won’t be alone.”

 “But-” she tries to fight off, but Pete watches as his mother links a comforting arm through Trisha’s and she slumps. She looks up at Pete, dark brown meeting his own (Trisha did mention once that Patrick inherited his father, David’s, eyes). “Are you sure…”

Pete forces a weak smile over at Ms. Stump. “We’ll be okay Miss Pat, if anything happens I’ll call his nurse…we’ll be fine” he reassures, hoping he was sounding genuine enough for her to believe him  Apparently it works because before Patricia leaves with his mom, she makes her way over to Patrick, kissing his forehead with the tenderness and love. _‘She loves you so much ‘Trick…why didn’t you see that there are people who fucking love you…’_ he thinks as both women quietly made their way out of the room.

He looks far too small in the bed, even as he makes his way closer, falling into the hard plastic chair beside the teenager’s bed, eyes never leaving his face. He looks like he’s sleeping, Pete thinks, tentatively reaching out to place a hand over Patrick’s slightly lukewarm one, being mindful of the IV’s taped to it.

“I don’t deserve to be here with you,” he says absentmindedly, the words falling from his lips without a second thought as he holds onto Patrick’s hand, mentally wishing the seventeen year old would wake up. He misses blue-hazel eyes, wide and bright, and the shy smile that could easily make his heart and walls cave in a heartbeat. He wants the warmth that flows through him every time he picks up a guitar for sings along to whatever’s on the radio.

“ _Fuck,_ Patrick, just _wake up”._ He hisses under his breath as he lets his head fall onto the sterile sheets of the hospital bed, close to Patrick’s bandaged arm. It’s too surreal…like nightmare he can’t wake up from…

“ _Wake the fuck up, man"_  He wheezes out desperately, hot tears falling steadily from his eyes, soaking the sheets below him. “I'm _sorry_ , I'm _so fucking sorry_. I didn’t fucking mean _it_ ….” His body shakes and he sobs quietly into the sheets, holding on to Patrick’s hand for dear life, wishing it could just grasp back.

It doesn’t.

“I lied, I want you to know that,” he says, hoping Patrick could hear him, to listen to what he had to say _‘Why would he even listen to you when you didn’t even give him that basic chance’_ hisses the shadows in his mind. _Shut up, shut up SHUT UP!!_ He bites back. “I fucking lied, ‘Trick, because my world _does_ revolve around _you_ ,” he gives out a shaky watery laugh that melts into a sob. “It’s always revolved around you, ever since we were kids,” the pain in his chest constricts to the point of painful as the words continue to flow, desperately wanting them to be heard by the sleeping teenager before him.

“I’ve just been too fucking afraid to admit it…”

Those words burn a hole in his chest, fire erupting and killing him from the inside.

It wasn’t until he moved to college did he realize it, how much he _needed_ Patrick, how much he wanted to be there for him. Until everything he did started to revolve around the younger boy; weekends back at home, going to the music store with Patrick, checking out new places around campus that Patrick would like, writing together, listening to him sing…

 _His world does revolve around Patrick_. It wasn’t until his recently, after talking with Gabe one night about their relationships that it slipped out.

_“Man, Wentz, this kid must mean the world to you, he’s go you wrapped around his little pinky”_

_Pete laughed. “Fuck off Saporta…he’s just fucking golden man, you have no idea…”_

_Gabe hummed before bringing the bottle of vodka to his lips and taking and swig. “Amgio, can I ask a question? You know, just out of curiosity…”_

_“Shoot.”_

_“Ever considered dating the kid?”_

_Pete shot up from the floor, the room spinning from how fast he sat up. “Wh-what?”_

_The taller soccer player shrugged. “Take him out on a date, you’ve said he’s more of a brother than anything else, you run your mouth about him 24/7…you sound like you’re in love, bro. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk about Ashlee this much when you two were dating…”_

_Pete shook his head, pushing back his guilty, disgusting thoughts of kissing Patrick senseless, his shameful wet dreams about being the younger boy’s first. No no no “No! Dude no, fucking, he turns 17 next month!”_

_Gabe looked over at him nonchalantly. “Amor no tiene limite de edad…” he mumbles into his bottle._

_“Dude, English, please.”_

_“Love doesn’t have an age limit, P-Weezy. Hell, my folks got married when my mom was 17 and look that them now, 35 year happily together with five sexy-ass Uruguayan children, yours truly being the most handsome. If your into him, just let him, know, he sounds really into you too.”_

_“Dude, he’s a fucking 17 year old….That would make me a fucking creeper.”_

_“So wait until he's 18 and ask him out, a year ain't that long bro...”_

_“That’s not the point!” he sighed, irritated, “This is Patrick....he doesn’t want anything to do with me…”_

_“You don’t know unless you ask him…” Gabe sang._

_“You know what, fuck you, fuck this…I…I don’t want him like that!”_

_“You’re lying through your teeth Wentz…you just don’t want to admit that you got it bad,” Gabe smirked into his bottle._

And he did have it bad, he still does. He thought he could convince himself otherwise by trying to ignore his feelings for Patrick. He threw himself harder into soccer, more into his studies, stayed away from home on the weekends, makes excuses to his family about soccer practice and studying. He partied more, taking home tempting girls and seductive boys with bad intentions home with him, trying to get the familiar memory of strawberry blond hair, bright eyes and pale skin out of his system…

It didn’t work…it never worked.

It nearly did though.

Just when Pete just borderlining piss ass drunk at the frat party less than 24 hours ago, _Patrick_ had called.

“ _Patrick, really? I’m not going to keep babying you, dude, my…my world doesn’t fucking revolve around_ you _…”_

_Gabe’s words echoing even the bass heavy room ‘You’re lying through your teeth Wentz…you just don’t want to admit that you got it bad…’_

“ _Fucking_ deal _with it, Patrick”_

The memory of those words dripping from his lips was salt in the fucking wound. This wasn’t what he meant, he never thought that it would come to this – to Patrick hooked up to a blood bag and IVs, to stark white bandages hiding self-inflected marks….it wasn’t supposed to be like this, never.  "I didn't mean any of it, I swear, I didn’t mean a single word,” A fresh set of tears escape his eyes and his fingers linger over bandages, “I'm sorry Patrick...I'm so fucking sorry...” Pete sobs pathetically into the sheets, praying, hoping that Patrick could hear him, forgive him, but there’s no twitch of a hand, no sound in the room expect for the monitor of a heartbeat that reassures him that the teenager is still alive, is still breathing. There’s no answer, there’s no comfort, and Pete can’t help but wonder of this hopelessness, the emptiness is what the teen was feeling, “I didn't mean a word..."

Another brief moment passes, and he looks up from the sheets to look upon the pale face, the straps of the oxygen mask digging gently into his cheeks, his chest rising in a steady rhythm. This isn’t the kid he grew up with, that he had known for nearly his whole life. It’s all kinds of wrong. "I-" He laughs bitterly as he continues to speak, "I tried to get you out of my head...I...I don't know if I could, man. I don't know if I _want to_ , to be honest." He lets his fingers rest over the bandages on his forearms, wanting desperately to kiss it, to somehow make all the pain and whatever Patrick was feeling go away, but he didn’t want to hurt him either, instead, settled for letting his thumb stroke across the cotton wrapped gauze.

"I promised I would be there for you, that I would always be there for you...some bullshit I told you, I fucking let you down." He recalls late nights and snuck away phone calls between him and the teen, reassuring him that, comforting him, wanting nothing more than to envelope him in a hug and protect of from the world…instead, they’re here and Patrick faced his demon and nearly lost, while Pete…Pete became one of those demons he swore he would protect him from.

Pete knew he couldn’t let him down again.

"Trick, you gotta wake up and pull through,” he whispers desperately standing up to look at him properly, but still grasping onto his hand like a lifeline. “ You gotta wake up, man, so I can tell you the truth face to face...I...I can't do this without you, I...I think I'm in love with you 'Trick, I have been since we were kids, and I want you to know that…I really do."  
  
Patrick looks like he’s sleeping, he looks so peaceful, despite everything, that the older boy can’t help himself. Pete leans in slightly in that moment and tenderly kisses his forehead, a tear falling from Pete’s lashes on the younger boy’s cheek. As Pete pulls away, he brushes away stray strains strawberry blonde hair before settling back down by the chair, never losing any contact with him.

“You gotta wake up Trick…if not for me, but your mom…you gotta…”

The only response he gets is the stead beep of the heart monitor.

…

  
Later that day, about two or three hours after Pete’s arrival, Patrick’s siblings and dad come in. His sister Megan is in tears when she gets to the room, and clings to Patricia as she sobs upon seeing her baby brother in a hospital bed. Patrick’s older brother Kevin arrives with their dad, David. His father is quick to rush to Patricia’s side and hug her, and she breaks down against his chest. Pete knew that David and Patricia’s separation/divorce was civil and reminded friends for their children sakes, even after David remarried. Patrick would often tell Pete that he had a so-so relationship with his dad, bonding over music and nothing more…it was still a touchy subject sometimes, but right now, he’s glad to see them there.

A doctor comes in later that evening and explains that Patrick’s body went through a severe trauma due to the loss of blood, hence his “mini-coma”. He positive that he should awaken soon due to the fact that the teen didn’t have to be intubated for oxygen; all they could do is wait.

So they did.

While the doctor is explain this to Patricia and Dale, he hesitates, which catches Pete’s attention as he stands watch of the boy’s sleeping form. “When he wakes, I want us to also consider his mental state…I hate to break this to you Patricia, but I don’t think this is your son’s first attempt at self-harming…”

Ice filled Pete’s chest as the doctor continued. “A nurse spotted numerous scars, many in various stages of healing on his thighs, Patricia. I have a feeling that he’s been hiding this for months, without telling anyone…”

Pete looks over at Patrick, gripping his hand tightly, his eyes burning with unshed tears. _“Patrick…why didn’t you say something…were you really hurting that much before…”_ When the doctor leaves, Patrick’s mom cries, Mrs. Wentz holding her close.

“Why didn’t he tell me…Dale why didn’t he…” His mother comforts her as best as she can, and Pete can’t help but let the tears fall at the sound of Patricia Stump crying…he can’t.

…

David, Kevin, and Megan were all visiting from out of town, and were staying in a hotel for a couple of days, coming to check in on Patrick at least twice a day, each taking turns sitting by his side and holding his hand.

Pete’s mom had to drag him away from the room at times, because he _just didn’t want to fucking leave him alone_ …not again. He made a perch in one of the hard plastic chairs, curled up but facing Patrick at all times, while Trisha camps out on the recliner in the corner for naps when she’s not by Patrick’s side.

Pete never really understood the severity of Patrick’s wounds until he watched a nurse change his banages, breath catching in his throat at the sight of a long vertical wound, deeply cut, raised, raw, and now stitched closed, black thread harsh against pale skin. Other horizontal cuts were seen on his wrist, clean lines that weren’t as deep at the one crawling up his forearms towards his elbow.

Pete had to excuse himself when the nurse left, vomiting in the nearby restroom, stick to his stomach at the thought of _Patrick_ doing that to himself. He leans his forehead against the cold porcelain as he heaves for oxygen, a steady chant of _Patrick, Patrick, Patrick_ ringing through his mind.

…

Patrick doesn't wake up for three days. Pete says in the hospital room for nearly the entire times he’s there, only going to his parent’s home to shower, change, and grab a bite to eat.

On the morning of third day, Pete knows he needs to head back to school, he had an afternoon class after all and needs to pass, not to mention soccer practice as the team is heading into the first round of the conference championship, but he can’t bear the thought of leaving Patrick.

“If anything happens, I’ll call you,” his mother reassures, urging him to head back home, showered, change and drive back so that he’s back at school before his afternoon.

He feels like he’s betraying the strawberry blonde teen, by leaving. “But mom-“

“I’ll call you,” his mother says, her tone final. Trisha smiles over to Pete from her chair, before she adds on to follow Dale. “It’s okay Pete, we’ll keep you in the loop, go to school sweetie.”

Pete thinks about fighting back and saying fuck to his schooling, but he had a soccer scholarship he needs to keep and fulfill and he fucking _hates_ it when people, especially his mother, are right.

With a defeated nod, he hugs his mother and then hugs Ms. Stump, Patricia telling him thank you for everything he’s done and for staying by Patrick’s side. He wants to make a remark about the truth of the whole matter but he doesn’t, instead pushes down his guilt and hugs her back before making his way back to Patrick’s side, taking in one last look at the sleeping teen, squeezing his hand without saying a word aloud. _“I would kiss you again, but I’ll wait till you’re awake, and when I can tell you face to face the truth…”_

“I’ll see you soon, okay Trick?”

 _“I won’t break my promise, not again…”_ he vows in his mind, his heartbreaking as he lets go and walks out of the room. When he gets to his car, and puts the keys into the engine, car coming to life, he finally allows himself to completely breakdown from the guilt, from the heartbreak, from _everything._

His trip back to school in Chicago is the longest drive of his life, the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach never ceasing, a blooming thought in the back of his mind telling him that he should have never left the hospital; it eats at him even when he’s sitting in class two hours later.

…

Patrick wakes up three hours after Pete departs.

When begins to come to, he vaguely aware of the bright lights and the pales walls surrounding him, as well as the feel of scratchy sheets against his skin and the pull in the IVs and needles he’s attached too…and the dull throbbing pain of his arms.

 _‘Did…Did I die?’_ he asks himself as his eyes have difficulty focusing due to the lights. He flexes his fingers and is met by a hand holding his, holding on to him. His body aches, and he feels somewhat dizzy as he tilts his head ever so slightly to see who has his hand, and is met with the sleeping expression of his mother’s face, dark circles under her eyes, and now stirring in her sleep.

 _‘I...I didn’t die...”_ he thinks, sounding disappointed, as he breathes in and out, aware of the heart monitor keeping track of his heartbeat. _“Why…”_

He watches as his mom wakes, her free hand rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she looks up to her son, slightly open blue eyes ringed with hazel. She gasps as a sob escapes her, shocked, relieved as Patrick tries to force out words, the tongue heavy in his mouth and works failing to come to head. All he can manage in the hoarse whisper of “Mom?” before she throws her arms around him, burring her face into the pillow next to his head, wet sobs and tears falling. She wetly kisses his cheek as she sobs, “My baby…you’re alive…oh my god my baby…” in the most heartbreaking voice he’s ever heard.

Patrick can’t bring himself to hug her back to calm her down an reassure her that he’s okay. _‘I didn’t die’_ plays in his mind like a broken record, while everything feels cold, empty…he shouldn’t be alive…he’s still alive...he's still breathing...he's still a burden…

” _I didn’t die…”_

…

After sometimes, the doctor comes in and checks on him, a nurse comes in to change his bandages, turning away from his self-inflicted wound, reminding him that he _failed_. They bring him some chicken broth to eat, but he just stares blankly at his tray, not bothering to touch, everything void, empty, and unfeeling.

‘ _I’m still here…’_

The doctor comes in and explains to her parents, his brother and sister, the options, but Patrick doesn’t pay it any mind, he’s too busy stuck in his head and lost in his own self-destructive thoughts and memories to really understand what was going on, although he barely catches words and phrases.

“Mental illness…possible severe depression and anxiety…recommending in-patient hospitalization…self-harming tendencies…high-risk...suicide...counseling…may need medication...it’s for his own good…”

“How long are you suggesting for in-patient,” his mother asks, focusing on her soft voice as his older sister Megan comes and sits beside him, holding his hand between both of hers, placing a careful kiss to his temple.

“Four to six months…he’ll receive counseling and medication…he’ll learn coping skills on how to handle his depression in a monitored environment…I can have a LPC come in and evaluate him for admission within the hour… I recommend Rogers Behavioral Health Center, they have a program for intensive teens he could benefit from, they offer CBT and Psychiactric services on site…”

Everything becomes a blur as his eyes being to water, his expression still flat, even as Megan squeezes his arm, mindful of his bandages. “It’s not for long, Patrick, just so that you can get some help,” she says quietly, in an attempt to comfort him.

It doesn’t do him any good. All he can think about is the razor going deeper into his arm and the cold settling around him. There are questions directed at him, but he doesn’t answered, he doesn’t pay attention.

‘ _Why did you save me…why are you all here? Do you see I’m just a burden to you all…’_

He closes his eyes as both his mother and father sign the paperwork.

He’s discharged from the hospital an hour later, riding in the back of his father’s car with his mother holding on to his hand as he gazes out the window. As he watches the cars pass, he thinks he recalls a voice sounding vaguely like Pete in the back of his mind, a voice lulling him while he was asleep the in the dark.

 _“Trick, you gotta wake up and pull through…_ ” it sounds like Pete…like _his_ Pete, not the one with venom his voice, ” _I can't do this without you, I...I think I'm in love with you 'Trick, I have been since we were kids”._

It can’t be Pete…because Pete doesn’t love him…Patrick knows Pete can’t return his feelings, the older boy never did. He attributes the words to a figment of his imagination as they drive towards Chicago.

…

Pete gets a phone call from his mom right after his afternoon class from his mom. He nearly cries out of relief when she tells him Patrick woke up, however later explained to her son that while Patrick was discharged, he was going to be admitted to an in-patient facility.

“They want him there for four to six months, but it’s there in Chicago…I know this has been really tough for you Pete, but I don’t know, maybe having a familiar face to see him could be good for him during the treatment process…They’re heading up there as we speak.”

His mom continues to fill him in, his heart still soaring at the thought of Patrick being awake and okay, but his heart stops short of reaching the heavens when he finds out of the in-patient hospitalization, and the thought of Patrick alone by himself.

When he hangs up with his mom, he googles the treatment center, learning its only 20 minutes away from his apartment.

He has to tell Patrick, he has to talk to him, to apologize, to let him know that he won’t be alone anymore…he almost lost the younger boy once to his fear and denial…

He’s not about to leave him alone again, not without telling him.

Pete’s not about to lose Patrick again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The feels, I swear
> 
> After writing this, I have come to realize that this fic will probably longer than two chapters, maybe just three..or four. As for the next update, I want to say look out for it on Friday, as I go back to work tomorrow and that really stunts the writing process for me, but I want to finish this one... I really really do! Fluff and angst will be in the next chapters, and I'm sorry of it kind of seemed rushed or a it "wonky" at the end. 
> 
> Comments, feedback, and kudos are very much appreciated and if any of you need hugs or tissues or a shoulder to cry on (or someone to yell at) make sure to stop by my [Tumblr](http://shatteredmirrors-and-lace23.tumblr.com/) , I try to post snippets of upcoming fics on there, especially for 'In the Breaking' and my Coffeeshop AU, an any other random fic idea I may come up with (such as a Suitehearts fic and a Supernatural theme-esque fic that has been in the works for about a year now, full of magic and werewolves and all that awesome stuff). 
> 
> Thank you for reading and I'll update as soon as I can! xoxo


	3. Curse in Reverse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes are mine as this fic is un-beta'd.

Walls.

White walls and plastic bracelets with his name on his gauze-wrapped wrist. It taunts him with his name and a barcode, which one of the nurses scans with a reader, information coming up on a laptop and his mother and father meet with the program director beyond the other door. He feels like cattle that’s been branded.

The color doesn’t help, either.

It’s red, like the sloppy painted roses her made for his mother in class when he was a child, red like the slow sluggish streams flowing from his arms and the cuts, like skin fresh and raw, bloodied knuckles, broken noses, like blood on the hardwood floor…

“You’ll wear that one for a few days, sweetie,” informs the nurse in front of him, a sweet smile on her face, her voice soft, like ocean waves coming onto the shore, her hair brilliant fiery red-orange. He can’t bring himself to return her smile, instead looks at her with blank eyes before turning them back to his lap.

The kind nurse leaves more a moment, muttering a quiet, "I'll be right back", the soft soles of her shoes silent against the tile, harsh light reflecting off the surfaces in the hallway, or lobby or wherever they were holding her, as he awaits the decision being made just beyond the door, like a cattle brought to slaughter, branded and fed, and ready to be butchered by counselors and therapist wanting nothing more than a piece of what’s inside the safe inside his mind for answers…Patrick doesn’t want to give them the key.

He sits hunched in his chair, fingers idly playing the frays of his jacket, the wayward piece of gauze that escaped its wrappings, wondering if he unraveled the cotton around his arm if the reality, or the remainder of his failures, will cause his mind to shatter on the floor, his last resolve unwound by the simple tug of the cotton, like yard from its ball, or thread from its spool…a thread of life, like the ancient fates of Greek mythology…surely they had nipped at his thread, and yet he’s still here….apparently the fucking scissors weren’t sharp enough.

Patrick’s mind is white noise, static on the radio as his thoughts bleed and mend together into nothingness, into the grey. Everything feels numb, void of meaning, empty, he can’t put an exact name to it but he’ll try. It’s the pit in his stomach that has no end, that feels like a never ending drop, it’s suddenly a flash of memories, of beatings and hair pullings, of being pushed to his knees and punched, of being mocked and taunted, words, pictures…it’s all melting together, replacing the grey with the red of his skin, of the razor against white, of blood in it’s wake…

_‘u fat fuck go kill urself’_

_‘…who wants a whore …’_

_‘just die fag’’_

‘ ** _Fucking_ deal _with it, Patrick_** _’_

He feels a gentle hand rest over his fists, unknowingly clenched, limbs shaking from force, nails dug deep into the tender skin of his palms.

“Hey, it’s okay, can you breathe in and out for me,” coos the nurse with such gentleness, careful prying his fingers from his palms, not flinching the slightest at the sight of crescent shaped marks now embedded into his skin, a few of them close to breaking skin. "There you go, it's okay, hon." She grabs a sterile moist wipe from her cart and cleans his hands, mindful, yet thorough. She inspects them once more, pleased with her work before she places her hand on his wrist, rubbing soothing circles on the gauze.

“Just relax, you’re safe Patrick…this is only a temporary place, there’s no need to be scared…”

Scared?

Is he scared? Maybe….

He doesn’t really know if he’s being completely honest. Blue-hazel eyes wonder back to the gauze wrapped against his delicate wrist, stark against skin, as al he can recall is warm blood flowing from cuts, of silencing the demons and voices in his head, of making it all go away…He didn’t mean to take it that far, did he? He just wanted the piercing looks and mocking laughs to stop; he wanted everything to disappear like smoke floating into night.

But maybe, just maybe if he cut a little deeper….

But he was _still here_ ….He was still _alive…_

_Alive…._

How can you be _alive_ when you feel smothered out, like the end of a cigarette smashed until the remains of fire gave out, covered in dirt and discarded?

This wasn’t alive…Patrick come to the conclusion that this was failing and falling; hitting the ground and not being able to get up…The teen wasn’t sure if he wanted to even get up again.

A moment later, the director talking to his parents comes to gather him with a small smile, eyes kind but worn. “Patrick, would you care to join us?”

In the office they talk about the results of his evaluation, and that while they have a good guess of a diagnosis of Major Depression Disorder, but explained that within the next two days he’ll be seen by Dr. Lavigne for a proper psychiatric diagnosis and possible medication. They also want him to have counseling session with one of the resident counselor, Mark Hoppus, who specializes in working with teens and young adults.

He doesn’t respond, his gaze in his lap as he tries to zone out the world, zone out the office, the stitches in his arm, the emptiness, and the static in his mind. One of his hands is clasped between both of his mother’s, her holding on to him for dear life. _‘I’m sorry I’m doing this to you’_ he wants to tell her, quietly noting how she’s holding back from falling part, but he can see the pain her eyes, can feel the fear and desperation in the way she clings to him, his fingers grasping on to hers just as tightly. _‘I’m sorry you have to go through this…I wish I hadn’t woken up…’_

He sneaks a glance at his father, looking tired and exhausted, the hurt in his eyes just a plain as it is in his mother’s. He turns away back to his jeans; he doesn’t think he can recall ever seeing either of his parents like this, even after their divorce.

“Patrick?”

His gaze turns from his worn jeans to the director at the desk. “Our goal here is to help you get better, to help you find ways manage your emotions and to prevent what happened from happening again,” the director explains calmly as if trying to talk to a startled animal, perhaps Patrick is in their eyes now, “We believe for your safety and the ensure that for treatment to be consistent and monitored, it’d be best if you stayed with us for about four months, but again, that’s temporary, it depends on how cooperative you are with treatment and progress. Recovery does take time and we want to be able to eventually help you to transition you to an outpatient facility for treatment…”

“So I would stay here?” he asks quietly almost in a whisper, wanting to confirm what he just heard, his voice even as he looks at the doctor and then back at his and his mother’s hands, catching the way she grips his hand a little more tightly.

“Think of it as a little break from everything, Rick,” explains his mother just as softly. “It’s…it’s to help you, baby.”

The doctor nods in agreement before he continues on. “There is one thing I want you to understand, Patrick, and that is that this is not a prison; while you’re here, you’ll be able to wonder around, participate in activities, outings, groups, social times, education as well…” The director goes on to explain the education program, various therapies that are offered, but Patrick isn’t listening, he’s too busy watching the way his mom’s hands hold on to his own, comforting but desperate, slightly trembling, and he’s wondering if she’s thinking about that night now, about holding on to him for dear life as blood flowed out of his arms, razor forgotten on the floor.  She must have found out about the picture and the harsh words thrown at him, she must have known about the scars he’s hidden from her in plain sight.

She was the last person he wanted to hurt.

He just wanted it to go away, to make the noise, the taunts, the looks, the insults, and the laughs go away.

“Just four months?”

The doctor nods, going on to explain about progress, regression, and other crap that seemed irrelevant.

Maybe he could survive four more months for her…

Maybe…

…

The first week of Patrick’s admission into Rogers, Pete can’t focus. His professors see it when he fails two major exams, his coach sees it in his messy footwork on the field, Gabe and Travie see it when he misses kicks and passes during practice.

He can’t think right, he can’t even fucking function when the imagine of Patrick, too small and too pale in a too big hospital bed is stuck in his head, forever burned every time he thinks of the younger boy. No longer do brilliant smiles or bright eyes that always lit up as they went into a local record store, come to mind when he thinks of his childhood best friend, no longer do the sound of him singing along to a tune he’s plucking out on Pete’s old guitar come to mind, but instead he’s left with the burning smell of sterile walls and sheets, the sound of a heart monitor and of Trisha’s tears, and white bandages and black stitches against pale skin…

His fist collides with the metal of his locker when his coach kicks him out of practice, and hence, out of tomorrow’s match. The cool metal against his knuckles does nothing to sooth the sting and burn of pain and the thoughts burning in his head. He throws digression into the wind and punches the offending locker twice more, an animalistic sound coming from the back of his throat as each punch lands. _‘You told him to deal with it…and he did…you broke your promise and he tried to kill himself…’_  hisses a voice in his head as he pants heavily against the locker, his forehead resting against the medal. ‘ _Shut up…shut up shut up! I didn’t mean for him to try to hurt himself…I never wanted Patrick hurt…I was just too afraid to let him know that…that I-’_ he screams back in his mind, only to ripped out of his own headspace, by the sound of his own name.

“Are you done Wentz?”

 He looks over his shoulder to see his coach, standing in the entry way of the locker room. Pete, with anger boiling in his chest, narrows his eyes into a glare. “I’m not _fucking done!_ ” he seethes, “I can still play, you should not have taken me out!”

“I wasn’t talking about that,” he comes out firmly, not at all fazed by the player’s wrath. “I’m talking about your head, are you done messing up and ready to focus or do I have to bench you for the first round of matches?”

“Oh, _fuck you_! I can fucking play!” Pete starts, before he’s cut off again, his coach’s voice even, an extreme opposite to how he usually is on the field or in the locker room.

“Saporta and McCoy told me a friend of yours was in the hospital, which is why you went AWOL last week…they told me it hit you hard, is this what all this is about, Pete?”

Pete wanted to punch Gabe and Travie, but then part of him wanted to fucking hug him for looking out of him. Gabe had been the first one Pete told, and told _everything_ too, and Gabe just gave him a sad, sorry expression and a hug. _“You have to be there for him man…you have to show him that you’re going to be there again and that you want to always be there…”_   Travie felt so guilty when Pete told him, since it was _him_ to drag Pete to that fucking party to drink away any thoughts of Patrick.

Pete personally didn’t think he deserved any comfort from his friend, especially when he couldn’t even be there for Patrick.

“Go home.”

Pete’s attention snapped back to his coach. “What?! But what about-?”

“Go. Home. We’ll handle the game tomorrow. You need to get your head back together, away from the field.”

As his coach walked off, leaving no room for argument, Pete was left alone in the locker room, an empty feeling in his stomach that reminded him a lot of failure gnawing at his insides.

…

Pete goes home that weekend.

While it’s usually Dale’s and Patricia’s Saturday morning ritual for coffee and talking, Mrs. Wentz tells her son that Trisha was visiting with Patrick, something that stabs Pete in the heart like a hot poker.

“How’s she doing?” he ask quietly, accepting the steaming cup of coffee from his mom. There are shadows of dark purple are faintly starting to bruise under his eyes from the insomnia plaguing his sleep since the incident.

His shoulders fall ever so slightly at his mother’s weary sigh as she pours a cup for herself. “Trisha…Trisha’s hanging in there…” Dale takes a seat at the island to the right of her son, noticing the way he’s staring deeply into his cup, sweeten with a little bit of sugar and a decent about of cream. “She’s still shaken up. I convinced her to take some time off, and Megan’s taking some time off from work to be with her, too.”

“That’s…that’s good.”

“Yeah,” she agreed softly, sipping from her cup. “I want her to go talk to Aaron, our trauma counselor at work, but she’s not budging. I told Megan to maybe bring it up to her…so she can at least process everything that happened…”

Pete nodded, finally taking a sip from his own coffee. “What about the school?”

“The boys involved have been expelled and arrested, and since the pictures and comments made online can be seen as harassment, even some with sexual intent, they’re looking into seeing if they can be tried as adults for harassment resulting in physical injury,” she explained, “Apparently, when word spread about an investigation, Shane Morris, I think, tried to take down the pictures and the comments, but some other students had screenshot the comments and turned them over to police, other students involved so being talked to…”

“But still…”

“I know, Pete…I know.” The raven haired boy wanted to scream, to smash his cup against the floor in anger because even if Morris did go to trail and get jail time, _it wasn’t enough_ …nothing would be enough to reverse the damage to done Patrick and his family.

When he found out about the bashing page, about Morris and the fucking picture, the comments, the taunts, he wanted to drive over to the senior’s house and beat him ‘till he stopped breathing, wanted to make him pay for the humiliation, the degrading words, the _torture_ he put Patrick through. He wanted Morris to feel what the younger boy felt-

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop it.” Came his mother’s voice, firm, but still soft, even in the emptiness of the kitchen. It was then that Pete noticed how tightly he was holding onto his cup, and the way his leg was shaking…fuck. “I’m not bailing your ass out of jail for assault charges, I don’t care if your dad’s the DA for the county.”

“Sorry.” Okay, maybe he doesn’t give his mom enough credit sometimes.

She smiles gently, looking a little smug. “I know what I have,” she takes another sip of her coffee. “What about you? How have you been?”

He thinks about lying to her, about telling her that he’s fine, instead of telling her that Patrick’s been on his mind 24/7. He can’t sleep, can’t function, and feels guilty as fuck, the weight in his stomach drowning him as he tries to swim his way back to the top, back to Patrick…He doesn’t know if he can at this point.

“It’s been hell,” he admits with a shaky breath, it’s his mother after all and he knows better than to hid anything from her. “I...I don’t know, Mom. I feel helpless. I should have been there…”

“Son-”

“Mom, I _should’ve_ been there! He fucking called me! And I-I didn’t do anything!” He feels the pressure building behind his eyes, hot tears beginning to well up as he thinks back to that night, guilt eating him away at the thought that he could’ve _lost_ Patrick that night and the last thing he would have said to him was coated in alcohol and dripping in poison.

**“ _Fucking_ deal _with it, Patrick”_**

“I didn’t fucking do _anything_ …when I promised him, Mom… _I promised_ I would always be there for him…” A tear escapes his eyes as it falls into his cup before he realizes it. He doesn’t let the rest of them fall, because he doesn’t believe he deserves it, he doesn’t deserve to cry when _he’s_ the reason Patrick got as low as he did.

He feels hands on his shoulders before another tear refuses to be held back and slips down his cheek. He feels his mom bring him into an embrace, warm, strong, and comforting. “Now you listen to me, Peter,” her tone firm. “You didn’t put a razor to that boy’s wrist, do you understand me. While I’m upset that you didn’t talk to him when he called you, you weren’t the reason he tried to kill himself, you’ve been nothing but loving and kind to Patrick since the day I took you the meet him when he was born. Patrick…Patrick was battling his own demons that we didn’t see, and we can’t sit around and dwell on the what-ifs, do you hear me? We have to be there for him now, we almost lost him once, Pete, we can’t go through that again… you can’t let go of him Pete, not when you love him so much…”

The older boy pulls away from his mother with a shocked expression, fear coursing down his spine. He begins to feel the floor beneath him crack and crumble, ready to swallow him whole. He tries to force something out, maybe a denial, or a confession, but nothing comes out, instead, he’s gaping like a fish, anxiety ebbing into his mind.

Dale seems to read her son like an open book before cradling his cheek in her palm with a gentle smile. “Oh, honey…Mothers’ always know; Trisha and I pick up on it these last three years.”

His face heats up with shame and embarrassment, but it slowly melts away as his mom brings him into another hug, returning it as he speaks into her shoulder. “I tried getting him out of my head, Mom…I tried…I-I was scared that he…”

“You never know, son, but us Moms just have a knack for knowing these things, and Trisha and I have a feeling he feels the same about you,” she smiles. “You can’t leave him alone again, Pete, you have to show him that it’s going to be okay, he needs to see it from the one person that really matters and that’s you.”

Pete hugs his mom tighter, silently vowing to somehow make things right again…

Somehow.

…

Patrick’s been Rogers Behavioral Health Center for about a week now.

Gone is the red band around his wrist, and is now replaced with a the usual white customary hospital bracelet  with his name and information, but with a new addition, another bracelet stacked on his wrist with his room number, another barcode, and three colorful dots, blue, red, and orange with another barcode.

After two days in ‘quarantine’ as they called it, he was shown to his room and his roommate. His roommate’s name is Tyler, he comes to find out when he is shown his room. The room itself small, but very dorm like. There are two beds on either side, as well as two desks, a medium size chalkboard on the each wall, a large window with shutter-like blinds, as well as a small open section on either side that could be for a closet space, as well as a short 3 drawer dresser.

One side of the room looked homey, lived in, in a way, a bright red and black comforter and bare pillows on the bed, desk decorated with books, comics, papers, and notebooks, a calendar drawn on the chalk board, clothes in the closet and a shower bag resting on the dresser, and a small collage of pictures decorating a small section of the wall at the head of the bed.

The side that would be designated as Patrick’s was bare, but the nurse reassured him that his mom would be stopping in soon to bring him some things and clothes from home. Patrick nodded dully, as the nurse smiled at Tyler and left both boys in the room.

“See ya Nurse Hayley,” waved the boy with a smile. “Hey, I’m Tyler,” his roommate grinned at him, but is only greeted with silence. “Look, It's cool if you don’t want to say anything, I get that, man, but they want me to show you around the first day, and then if you want, you don’t have to go out until your ready…” he reassured, which caused Patrick to nod again. “Cool, so um, if you want, you put your backpack with your stuff wherever you like,” he began explaining, “I’m not an asshole, but if you ever bored and, like, wanna touch anything or read anything, just um...ask…? I mean, I’m not gonna say ‘no’ just…um…courtesy? I swear I'm not like rude or a dick or anything, just...yeah...I'm kinda weird around new people,” he laughs, to which Patrick blandly nodded in agreement, still unsure of what to make of his new roommate. He seemed nice for the most part, abet, a little bit hyper, but nice nonetheless.

“Cool, so today’s my free day, so I guess I’ll show you around and then we can grab some food and chill?” Another nod, and Patrick tugged on the sleeves of his hoodie, covering the bandages on his arm from sight. 

He followed Tyler around the facility, noting how it was rather spacious, but also how there were staff placed for monitoring. They passed the lounge room, a sun room, a music room, game room, tech room, the cafeteria, and nurses’ quarters, and then the Therapy hall. It looks fairly decent for the most part, but Patrick couldn’t help but still feel empty even in the vast amount of rooms and space.

When they grabbed their dinner, Tyler introduced them to several other teens, each wearing identical bracelets to him, one of them having different colors. Brendon and Alex, as Patrick observed quickly were the jokers of the group, Ashley, who goes by Halsey, acted like the sister, joining them in their games over their spaghetti dinner. Lynn and Gerard were looking on fondly, as Frank and two another boys, Mikey and Ray, recounted their day. It was a nice little group, although at the beginning it seemed a bit…well anxiety inducing to say the least.

“Whose the new kid?” called out Brendon, munching on a meatball. Patrick felt himself tense under everyone’s stares as he shrunk into his seat. Tyler, taking his cue, answered, which caused a wave of relief to wash over him. “Guys, this is Patrick, it’s his first day out of quarantine, be nice and give him some time to get comfy…”

Everyone greeted Patrick, and continued on as if he wasn’t there, invisible, a dull stab of a reminder. “We don’t push on the first day, but after a few days, you’ll be seeing some of these dudes and chicks around…they’re really nice, I promise.” Patrick nodded and he wished he had his trucker hat with him, to try to hide from these strangers who were stuck, just like him. He ate in silence, barely making a dent into his plate before he and Tyler returned back to their room.

Tyler offered him a pillow and a spare comforter to hold him over as until he gets his belongings, continuing to explain life at the center.

“Everyone here has a story, but we all start out the same. Red bands are given to patients who are at risk to themselves or others, so, like, if you’re actively trying to off yourself, or hurting yourself, running away, fighting…all that fun stuff. They call them L.O.C. 0s, Level of Care 0, meaning you're new and they just to make sure you;ll be okay, Since you’re not wearing a red band anymore, they must have clear you to be social, so that’s good. But, if you do go into “Crisis” they may bump up your color, it just depends…”

Over the next few days, Patrick continues to keep to himself, only leaving the room when Nurse Hayley comes to gather him to change his bandages and after leading him to the Sunroom where the other patients gather. Later he follows Tyler on a smiliar routine, grabbing food during breakfast, lunch, and dinner, getting used to the shower schedule, and looks on at everyone busying themselves around him. On the days where Tyler is “out and about” either going to counseling, group, or just getting out of the Sunroom in general, Patrick simply watches as he comes and goes freely, however notices that they're not allowed to go back to their rooms until after dinner.

"Policy," Tyler explains one night. "They want to keep an eye on us, they can't do that if we're in out room, so we gotta either do groups, school, threapy, sessions, and other stuff." 

When it comes to mornings, Patrick can't find it in himself to move from the bed at times, wanting nothing more than to sink into the mattress, only moving to answer the door when it’s time for his newly prescribed medications. He feels like a void at times, a body of nothingness, cold forever chilling him as he wades in an ocean of his own emotions. The first two nights in his new room, he wakes with a start, quiet tears running down his face as his dream taunt him with flashback of Morris and his friend, of things going farther than they should, of flashing lights and the clicks of pictures, of words hurled his way and insults to match.

But on the fourth night, he dreams of something else entirely different. He dreams of Pete, of the two of them in a park, laughing, playing music together. At one point he feels Pete kiss his shoulder as his arms wrap around his waist. _“I’m not about to let you go again…”_   In this dream, he’s happy, and alive…and in love?...He’s not sure. But when he wakes, he’s thrown back into his own reality where, cold and alone, his roommate sleeping soundly across from him, and Pete nowhere in sight.

Because if Patrick was going to be truthful to himself, Pete couldn’t love him…he wouldn’t ever think of Patrick like that…

At least that’s what he convinced himself after all these years.

…

Weekends are for visiting and family, he quickly learns, as Tyler seems a little more hyperactive and giddy, nearly skipping out of the room come ten on the dot. Visiting hours are from 10am to 6pm, and in some cases, adults or guardians can check out patients for the day and return them before curfew.

He’s taken by surprise when Nurse Hayley informs him that he’s needed first thing in the morning when she comes in for wake up call. After he dresses, he follows her and is greeted to two familiar, smiling, yet tearful faces.

His mom and sister come and visit him that first weekend, with clothes, a comforters, trinkets from home, and some of his favorite books. “They told me I couldn’t bring your laptop, but I’ll see if they’ll let me bring your guitar next time,” his mom tells him, hugging her son tightly in the sun room. He hugs her back, warmth blooming in his chest at the feeling of her mother holding him, his sister hugging him from behind.

They talk for three hours, asking him about how he's adjusting, therapy, if he’s been eating. Patrick nods with a small smile. He also tells them that he’s starting therapy the next week, and reports that everything is okay.

As Patrick walks with her mom and sister out of the sunroom and onto the patio deck, he catches sight of Tyler clinging close to another boy, slightly taller with hot pink staining the long strands of his hair, gauges in his ear and a bright smile on his face. Something in his chest constricts as the other boy brings Tyler closer as they laugh about something, gasping his roommate’s hand and bringing it up to his lips for a quick and playful kiss.

He pushes the feelings down and goes outside, sneaking a quick curious glance as Gerard and Mikey hug an older lady in the distance, Frank also coming in to hug the lady with his own smile on his face, tucking back long black hair behind his ears.

It’s all curious to see, and he begins to wonder the stories that surround this place, and wonders where some of the others are, like Alex, Halsey, and Brendon…he wonders if their families came to see them too.

When his mother and sister leave, with a promise to visit him again soon, he returns to his room with his belongings, arraigning it somewhat to his liking. Navy blue comforter on his bed, pictures of his family from home, some of his loved action figures, a notebook, and his books and comics arraigned on his desk.

While color now filled the room with small reminders of home, the void in his chest never felt ‘ _full’_ like this. As he climbed to his bed with a few of his comics in hand, Hayley came in once again later before light's out, this time to change his bandages and give him his evening medications.

“Did you have a good time with your mom and sister,” she asked kindly, scanning his barcode bracelet before handing him a small paper cup of two pills and a bottled water,  the blue and white pills a reminder of the fact that he’s _‘not mentally okay’_ even as the slide down his throat.

“Yeah, it was good to see them…they brought me some stuff,” he replied softly, finding it easy to talk to the orange-haired nurse as she threw the paper cup and brought from gauze, ointment, and bandages from her cart.

She began to unravel his old dressings as she spoke, clearly unfazed by the angry red wound and black thread. “That’s good, it’s always good to have things from home. What did she bring you?”

He chatted a little the young nurse, his eyes watching as she gently disinfects his wounds with a spray, wipes it down, and then dabs on some cream with a cotton ball before re-wrapping his forearm, hiding away his scars and shielding him from the reminder of his failure.

Tyler comes into the room an hour later, grinning madly even as he flops down onto his bed, humming a tune. As it turns out, the boy with Tyler was named Josh. “He’s my boyfriend. He comes and visited every other Saturday if he can, usually he’ll send me something just to let me know since he works and all…We’ve been together for almost three years, long before _this_ happened,” he explains gesturing to his head.

Patrick, feeling burst curiosity and bravery coming from the void in his chest, orange hues bleeding from the dark, shyly asked something of Tyler. “If…if you don’t mind…why are you here?”

Tyler looks surprised for a moment, turning his head to look at the boy with a trucker hat perched on his head, one of three that his mother brought him, before giving him a small smile, eyes kind, like Hayley’s before he explains.

“I’ve got something… _someone_ …I guess, in my head…," he starts. Patrick sitting on his bed, watching as the boy talks. "He’s not mean or bad, well at first he was, but he’s gotten pretty chill over time. He's pretty cool. His name is Blurryface…or Blurry if you will." Tyler looks over at Patrick and smiles. "He protects me.” Tyler goes on to explain that when he's a foster kid, and moved around from place to place for as long as he could remember. "I stayed with a lot of family, some of them were nice, but I never stayed long enough for them to want to adopt me, y'know? And I just got older, and people like to adopt younger kids. While I stayed with some nice people, there were also some bad ones...they weren't really nice to me, and sometimes...bad things would happen," he explained quietly. "Burry was kinda there, and sometimes, he would kinda be me, if that doesn't sound crazy, but he would protect me from the bad stuff. It wasn’t until I was with my current, well, former now, I guess, foster family, and, well, the dad wasn’t bad at first, but he’s not very nice. Josh and I had been dating on the down-low for about two and a half years, y’know? And turns out the dad was really homophobic…he found out about us and tried to “beat the gay out of me”…before he could hit me I blacked out. When I came to, the dad was on the floor and beaten up, and my hands hurt. Blurry fought back for me. When I was explaining that to the cops, they decided I needed residential care for six month…my social worker agreed and is trying to find a new family for me, so I’m stuck here until then,” he shrugged nonchalantly. “I mean, I have my days…I still have flashbacks about what happened to me…and I’m learning to control Blurry.” Patrick learns that Tyler's been in Roger’s for two months now. “Josh and sometimes his dad come and visit me, and are talking to my social workers about stuff, it helps.”

Patrick nods, looking down at his sleeve covered arms, a well-loved hoodie that he is rarely seen without. “What about you?” bring Patrick out of his thoughts, looking back up at a curious Tyler. “What did you do?”

The meeker teen looks over at the other boy before back down into his lap as he carefully pushes up his hoodie sleeves to his elbows with trembling hands, revealing a freshly dressed forearms as his chest beings to constrict. He expects Tyler to laugh at him, to mock him for his failed attempt, to tell him he was wrong…

But nothing comes, just Tyler sitting up in his bed to face him, his eyes and expression show of understanding. “It got pretty bad, huh?” he asked softly. All the cinnamon blonde-haired boy could do was nod. Silence fills the room for a moment before Tyler speaks up again. “I hear you cry at night…do you dream about it sometimes? Or what caused it?” Another nod and Patrick feels embarrassed, his cheeks and his ears burning as he pulls his brim down over his eyes.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” comes Tyler’s soothing voice, “If you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here…and so is Blurry…,” he makes his way over to Patrick’s bed, sitting beside him, putting a hand on his knee. “You’re still here for a reason, dude. Think of it, of all this, as a second chance,” Tyler attempts to sooth with another reassuring smile.

Patrick looks up at the boy and the back at his forearms…

A second chance…at what?

…

The next week goes a little easier, to say the least.

His morning routine is fairly similar to Tyler’s they wake up, go eat, sit with Brendon, Alex, Gerard, Mikey, Frank, Hasley, and Lynn before each of them make their way to either their rooms or sessions. Patrick learns to spend a lot of his free time in the sunroom, curled up in one of the big recliners with a book in his hand or a notebook in his lap, spinning words into lyrics or notes into melodies. He keeps mostly to himself, unless one of the girls, Brendon or Tyler invite him to some very heated Uno matches or board games. It was decent, bearable for the most part, except when it came to his sessions.

Dr. Avril Lavgine was a nice lady. She was the resident psychiatrist and met with him to discuss his medications and his diagnosis. “Patrick,” she asked smoothly, her voice light and eyes rimmed with kohl in an artful way, manicured black nails contrasting against the hot pink of his pen. “What we’re going to be doing during our session is talk about your depression and how you’ve been using the coping skills Mark is going to be teaching you, and talk about your medication and it’s effects of it on your mood as well as to answer any questions you have.” She’s nice, patient with him. He doesn’t talk much during their first session, but likes her well enough that he makes a promise to himself to open up more the next he sees her.

Mark Hoppus, his counselor, is a different story.

He meets with Mark three days out of the week for skills training and counseling, and while the older man is easy to talk to, and have very similar shared interest, Patrick refused to let this man into his head, shielding his thoughts under padlocks and passcodes as he sits curled on sofa of the office. It wasn’t until that Friday that he unknowing let the older man sneak a peek into the void in his head.

_“Patrick, what do you think makes a friend?”_

_“…I don’t know… someone that cares…?”_

_“Can you name some qualities of a friend?”_

_“Friendly, kind, someone you can talk to, will listen to you…will be there for you, ”_

_“Good…very good! Who do you consider your friend?”_

_There’s a slight pause before he whispers out a response “…no one…”_

_“Your mom told me you grew up with a boy named Pete…Do you consider him a  friend?”_

_“….I…”_

_/Patrick, really? I’m not going to keep babying you, dude, my…my world doesn’t fucking revolve around_ you _… **Fucking deal with it** …/_

_“Patrick?”_

_“No…I’m-I’m just some stupid kid to him…he doesn’t care…why would he waste time on me?”_

_“Now is that what he said directly or what you’re thinking…remember, those are two different things.”_

_“Does it matter? He…he wasn’t there…he didn’t want to_ be _there…”_

_“I’m sure that’s not the case-”_

_“You didn’t hear what he said!”_

_His counselor looks over at Patrick with patience in his, face carefully controlled of his emotions._

_“What did he say Patrick?” Mark ask quietly, carefully._

_“It doesn’t matter, can we just go over something else or can I just go back to my room…” He tries not to let the tears that threaten to form in his eyes fall as he pulls down the bill of his trucker hat further, shadowing his eyes._

_“I’ll see you for a skills session on Monday, okay Patrick, but I really want you to think about your feeling about Pete…I think once we can work through that we can really overcome some mountains…”_

_The rest of that Friday afternoon, he gets permission to go to his room early, and spends the evening curled under his blankets, feeling void, empty, and conflicted by the memories of a strong boy with a too big grin, warm hugs, and cyanide laced words that he heard over the phone._

…

It’s the weekend once more and he’s greeted by a familiar scene when he walks into the cafeteria. When one of his bracelets is scanned, he grabs a bowl for cereal and serves himself before quietly making his way over to the others chatting lively at the table.

“Patrick!” cries out Brendon, arms thrown in the air, his own bracelets sliding down his arms. “Man, where were you yesterday! We convinced Nurse Benji to sneak us in a projector for movie night and we watched _Monsters Inc_! Nurse Hayley was gonna try to sneak us in some more movies for night.”

“Kitty!” imitated Halsey as the others laughed. Patrick found himself giving the others a weak smile before sitting down between Gerard and Halsey, the latter nudging against his side as the others continued their conversation, reenacting various parts of the movie.

“Hey you okay? We didn’t even see you after your visit with Mark,” she asked softly, sliding over a small bit of his scrabbled egg on a small plate over to Patrick.

“I had a tough session…I guess I just wanted to be alone for a bit…”

The other nodded in understanding. “Okay, we were just worried about you. Try not to miss out tonight, we wanna watch the _Avengers_ , and we’ve seen you with a few Avenger’s comics,” she grinned.

Patrick looked at her blankly for a moment before nodding. _Her? Worried about him? Why would she ever waste her time on him…_

He pushed those thoughts away as he ate his cereal and took a few bites of the soft scrambled egg she had offered him, catching bits and pieces of the conversation around him.

It was later that afternoon, Brendon visiting with his mom and siblings, Tyler whispering to Patrick as his brows shoot up into his hairline at the mere sight of all 6 of Brendon’s younger siblings dogpiling the teen, “He’s Mormon…it makes a whole lot of sense, huh?”. Frank and Alex had some visitors too, which left Tyler, Lynn, Halsey, and Mikey in a heated game of ‘Spot It’ in the sunroom while Patrick and Gerard watched on with amused grins, Gerard showing Patrick how to use watercolor less than three feet away.

“So, for a spread, you just paint water on the paper, then take your wet brush, dip it in some color, and dab it in…it creates a cool effect!” The dark haired boy instructed, showing Patrick on his own piece of paper. Patrick followed suit, using a royal blue paint and watching it bloom over his sheet, reminding Patrick of flowers.

“Awesome, so what you can do know is leave it or you can dab some paper towels over it to soak up the water and it will leave a stain…the less water you use when picking up paint and the longer you leave it on the page, the darker it will stain,” explained Gerard and he began painting a dark sky with black, greys, and deep blues.

Patrick smiled picking out blues and deep purples for his page, letting both colors come together in blooms of wet puddles across his pages, filling the paper with color but not necessary a picture. “I don’t even know if I’m doing this right…” confessed the younger boy, not too worried as he spreads lighter blue across the page.

“It’s art, it doesn’t have to be right,” comments Gerard, blowing softly on a wet spot on his page before sneaking a peak over at Patrick’s page. “That looks good! It just takes some practice to get used to it, Frankie and Mike can’t paint for shit,” he laughs, “But you’re getting the hang of it. It doesn’t have to necessary be a _thing_ , it can be how you feel, what you see…Plus I find watercolors to be very flexible and forgiving.”

Patrick nods and continues with his painting as laugher erupts from the small group close to them.

“Clock!”

“Aw man! I had the stupid anchor!”

“Lynn don’t cheat!”

“Put down the next card already!”

“…Car!” “Heart” “Paint…splat-thingy!”

The group falls into a muddle of giggles and friendly arguments. Patrick feels himself smile slightly at the rag-tag group, falling into the comfortable ease of being around the familiar group of people after about two weeks. He feels a little lighter, he’ll admit, even as he paints a streak of fuchsia on is paper, watching it blend into the blues on his page, but he feels a little voice in the back of his mind, gnawing at his thoughts, not giving it a chance to speak as he looks down at his paper and then at group of patients he has easily fallen in to.

Patrick’s content, and maybe today is one of those days that Mark always talks about…the ‘good’ days, the ‘good’ vibes...

This thoughts are irrupted when he looks up as sees Nurse Hayley walk into the sunroom. “Hey Nurse Hayley” the group greets together, smiles on their faces for their favorite nurse.

“What’s up, chicken nuggets!” she grins before scanning the group, her eyes finding his. “Hey Patrick, you have a visitor!”

Before Patrick could question, the said visitor steps out from behind the nurse, eyes everted down and hands stuffed in his pockets. The teen’s eyes widen, the paintbrush in his hands falling from his fingers, thudding softly against the hardwood floor.

Whiskey colored eyes look up and lock onto his own, as his heart races a million miles a minute as confusion laces his words as he carefully, apprehensively watches the older boy from his spot.

“Pete?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy Crap I finally updated!
> 
> This chapter itself turned out to be about 14 pages, which made me come to the realization that I probably have about 2 more chapters to go (about)...THANK YOU FOR STICKING WITH ME!! You have no idea how much I really appreicate the support. I'm finding it impossible to type after work since my job can be emotionally draining at times (I work in the mental health field...my co-workers joke around and tell me I'm too young to be in the field but I love it, I honestly do) so it comes together over weekends and days off. I have a day off coming up soon so I'll be doing some more typing then.
> 
> BTW: Spot It is a real game and tons of fun to play with (especially when drunk...shhhh!!)
> 
> Comments, feedback, and kudos are very much appreciated and if any of you need hugs or tissues or a shoulder to cry on (or someone to yell at) make sure to stop by my [Tumblr](http://shatteredmirrors-and-lace23.tumblr.com/) , I try to post snippets of upcoming fics or chapters for other WIP, and my tumblr is just generally a dump zone. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me -xoxo
> 
> #theUpdatesareComing


	4. My Mind is a Safe (but You Picked the Lock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you thought the first chapter was bad...this one is worst angst wise, hence, can be triggering. Please read the tags.
> 
> All mistakes are mine, as my fics are un-beta'd
> 
> *** If triggered by needles, please avoid the paragraph past the midway point of the chapter starting with "Patrick’s words..." due to the slight description of a needle/injection.***

Pete doesn’t speak a word as he stands behind the fame-haired nurse, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie to keep them from shaking, his nerves eating at him. But he can’t look away. Not from the image of a familiar teen with a beanie over strawberry blonde hair and wide hazel blue eyes sitting with a sketchpad in his lap and a paintbrush fallen from his hand, next to a pale dark hair boy sitting in a similar position but looking up curiously, a watercolor palette between them.

He doesn't catch a glimpse of the bandages that covered half-way up both his forearms, assuming they were there under the sleeves of his hoodie, but he’s not so pale or so small in a too big hospital bed. There’s the soft pink in his cheeks and the warmth that Pete has always known since they both were kids that assures him that Patrick is alive, that he’s awake, and that he’s here.

“Pete?”

“Patrick,” sighed the raven-hired boy softly, his heart bursting out of his chest at the sound of his name coming from the younger teen. “You’re-You’re okay…”

Suddenly, he’s cut short by confused looking eyes, his voice small, scared, even; not once moving from his spot on the floor.

“What are you doing here?”

The raven-haired boy is taken back, ice filling his chest just at those words.

Gerard, Lynn, Halsey, and Mikey looked at each other for a brief moment, picking up their game, before shooting Patrick reassuring smiles, allowing him and his visitor privacy. Gerard picked up his paints, following his younger brother out of the room, when he caught sight of Tyler, the other boy looking curiously between his roommate and the visitor.

“Tyler, why don’t we give them some space,” Gerard suggested quietly, but Tyler didn’t move.

There was a tension in the room, something thick in the air that could just be unresolved feelings that needed to be talked out, or, that dreaded calm before the storm that came with a Crisis….Gerard was hoping for the first, but had a sinking feeling in his stomach when he noticed how tight Tyler’s shoulders had become in a few minutes, his eyes looking once more between the two in the room.

“Blurry…” Tyler, no, _Blurry_ then turned, his eyes still familiar, but somehow different. Gerard nodded his head to the other room, motioning to give them some privacy. Tyler’s alter nodded slowly, reaching over to squeeze Patrick’s shoulder before strolling out of the room with Gerard, leaving both boys in the room.

Patrick stands, pulling the sleeves of his hoodie down to cover the gauze on his arms, as he then wraps his arms around his middle, looking down, avoiding Pete’s gaze.

“What do you mean, dude?” Pete chuckles, somewhat sadly, his heart breaking at sight of Patrick so closed off. “You’re my best friend, why wouldn’t I be here?” He takes a step toward the teenager, who cautiously takes one back. Pete stands there, shocked. “ ‘Trick…I care about you, I worried about you, that why I’m here, man. I wanted to see if you were okay…”

"Well, I’m alive” Patrick snaps bitterly. “So you can go back to school….don’t you have soccer practice?”

Warm whiskey eyes were suddenly filled with confusion, taken back by the tone of the teen’s voice. “I’m...I’m taking a break, but, dude, that’s not important right now…I just wanted to see you ‘Trick, I-I wanted to talk to you-”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Patrick mutters, eyes still avoiding Pete’s, his fingers digging into his sides.

Pete’s shoulders slump slightly, but he continues on determined, wanting to tell this beautiful boy with a golden heart what’s been plaguing this mind for the last two weeks. “Yes, there is,” he starts out gently, making another step towards the other boy, a spark of hope in his chest when he doesn’t step back. He gets braver, more confident. “Patrick, you’re my best friend, and I’ve been driving myself crazy since you-”

“Pete…I _don’t_ want to talk about it,” Patrick says firmly. Snapping his eyes up to glare at the older boy, blue-hazel eyes hard and cool, but Pete notices that they don’t hold the same gleam as before, the spark of liveliness that was always; they’re worn and tired, and somehow, that just makes Pete feel guiltier.

He heaves out a sigh, “Fine, okay, we won’t talk about it…” he resigns, his voice soft, he ducks his head for a moment before turning to Patrick, watching him apprehensively. “How…how have you been….in here, then?”

“I’m alive…surviving,” is the curt response he gets, it’s muttered, but something about the way he says it hurts Pete right in the chest, and leaves the air in the room thick…He doesn’t like this.

The older boy simply nods, struggling to find words to say to Patrick, but his mind is coming up frighteningly blank, as all he can think about is how much he wants to hug the boy before him and whisper ‘I’m sorry’s into his shoulder, but he’s rooted in his spot, paralyzed by fear and ice slowly crawls through his veins.  _‘He’s in here because of you…because you wouldn’t listen’_ his mind hisses, guilt weighing him down. And for once, he doesn’t fight back against the words, because he knows it’s true.

Patrick sees Pete struggling, the healing cuts on his arms itching to no end, taunting him, reminding him of his failed attempt to escape. He wants to do that right now, he wants to escape; he wants to go back to his and Tyler’s room and hide under the covers, he wants to go to sleep and never wake up again.

He carefully looks up at Pete, his traitorous heart beating like a kick drum in his chest, but he’s not sure of it’s out of fear or…something else. _‘He doesn’t feel that way about you, he never did…don’t kid yourself.’_ He shuts his eyes at the toxic voice crawling in his head, the same one that was there the night he held the razor against his arm, blood pooling on the hardwood floors, and a minuscule thought in his mind wonders if his mother had to clean up her son’s blood from the floor…

_‘He’s a liar…he doesn’t give a shit about you.’_

He feels his body begin to tremble, as he lets the voice in his head berate him, taunt him, abuse him…but he doesn’t fight back, not like before, because the teen knows that it’s _true_.

Pete watches as Patrick’s hands, which are still tightly wrapped around his sides, begin to shake. He has to do something, just has to…

“ ’Trick,” he calls out softly, taking a step towards the boy, placing a gentle, reassuring hand on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his body through the layer of soft the soft cotton hoodie, until Patrick jerks away quickly, as if the touch as burned him. He watches the boy glance up at him, eyes dull, but guarded, but he doesn’t say a word about the hurt he caused of the older boy’s face.

“Why are you here?” he asks, his voice small, something that Pete hasn’t heard in Patrick speak in. Patrick wasn’t a ball of nerves, he never was. _His_ Patrick was shy at times, but never small, he was sass and sarcasm, and enthusiasm. He’s unbridled energy when he sings along to the soul of Prince or the punk of Green Day; _his_ Patrick was laughter and glares, and a fountain of trivia, and the gold the always tried to be a better person for…

This…this wasn’t _his_ Patrick…

And it was slowly breaking his heart from the inside out.

“Because I care about you,” he replies, his chest growing tighter as the words fall from his lips. “Because I made a promise to you that I would always be there for you, and I fucked it up…and I’m not going to fuck it up again, because I almost _lost_ you…I-I can’t go through that again, Patrick, _I can’t_.”

 _‘He just wants to win you over with pity…it’s just an act,’_ the voice whispers in his mind.

Pete’s not getting a response, Patrick still hasn’t moved and it’s killing him. He takes another deep breath before speaking, trying to control his emotions as he tries to tell the truth.

 “What I said _that_ night…” he starts, hoping Patrick understood, his voice starting to shake, “I didn’t mean a word of it. I was drunk, and I had no right to abandon you like that, to tell you that…I didn’t mean a word of it, _I swear_ ,” Pete says with a strong whisper, his voice edging to the point of pleading to somehow _make_ Patrick believe him. The dark haired boy takes a shaky breath, before he continues. “I let you down once, and I’m so fucking sorry, Patrick, _I’m so sorry_ …and I’m not going to let you down again, because I…I _care_ about you, Lunchbox, _so fucking much_ , you have no idea…”

 _‘He’s lying…he’s lying through his teeth_ ’ whispers a voice in a Patrick’s head, his voice dripping acid as it gets louder. ‘ _Lair, Lair, LAIR!!’_

“Stop _lying_ to me,” Patrick breathes out weakly, his body breaking into shakes, as angry tears begin to form in his eyes.

“W-what?” Pete stops as he fumbled for what he was about to say next, taken back. Pete looks over at Patrick, his body tense and defensive, shaking with only his arms holding him together, like he’s going to fall into a million pieces on the floor. “ _Please_ don’t lie to me, just tell me the fucking _truth_ , Pete...” And suddenly, Pete feels his blood begins to boil, red clouding the edges of his vision.

“You think I’m _lying_ to you?” he hisses out. “That I’m not telling you the _truth_?”

“ _How can I believe you_?,” Patrick yells, startling the older boy, stunning him as he stared on with wide whiskey eyes, “All you did was _lie_ to me, you _promised_ that you weren’t going to leave me, you _promised_ you would be there for me…and I fucking _believed you_.” Patrick was nearly in hysterics, tears falling from his eyes. “I’m just a stupid kid that was bullied, harassed, and, and made fun of! You don’t know how it feels to have people look at you like you’re the scum of the earth, you _don’t know_ how it feels to be ridiculed and bullied, and be talked to like a fucking prostitute, to have people call me a fag or a whore and spread a picture of me on the internet and blow up my phone endlessly, making fun of me, telling me that I’m just stupid, fat, _fucking failure_ … And they’re fucking _right_ because _I couldn’t even kill myself properly_!” He shoves up the sleeves of his hoodie, white bandages on display. The words he’s been longing to say since he woke up in a sterile hospital room spilling on to the floor like the way the blood flowed from his wrist weeks ago.

The laugh that comes from the seventeen year old next sends a shiver down Pete’s spine, it’s a haunting mixture of a manic, lost chuckle and a choked sobbed, opposite of the small, sad smile that graced his lips, as their eyes finally meet. “ _I dealt with it_ Pete…just not well enough…” And for the first time, Pete sees the desperation and heartbreak in his eyes, the eyes that lit up so brightly, now muted and shattered.

“Patrick…” Pete whispers, reaching out for the shell of the boy, of his best friend and soulmate, only to see him stumble back, shaking his head as he did. Neither of them notice Hayley moving from her spot at the doorway where the other kids had disappeared into, the nurse digging out a walkie-talkie from the pocket of her scrubs calmly, speaking soft and low into the radio. “Code Standby, Sunroom.”

“ _I just want it all to stop!_ ” Patrick brings his hands to cover his ears as the voice in his head drips poison into his brain, _‘Failure, you should have died, you don’t deserve Pete, you don’t to be happy, no one cares about you, they all hate you, you don’t deserve to live…’_ His hands fly off his ears as he begins to claw at the gauze covering his forearms, frantically, wanting to hurt, wanting to bleed. Pete moves to grab a hold of Patrick’s wrists, pulling them away from his dressings, but the pale skin above the bandages is blooming red with marks from Patrick’s desperate fingertips.

“Patrick, no! Please!” Pete begs as the younger boy begins to struggle against his hold. The flame hair nurse jumps into action, speaking smoothly and calmly into her walkie-talkie once more.

“Code 1000, Sunroom. Requesting back up.”

Pete suddenly comes away of the nurse as she hurriedly makes her way over to them,  glances at her with wide eyes, as she catches his wrists in each of her own, taking them from Pete's grip into her own, as she tries to pin it against his side, but Pete's focus is returned to the boy before him, who continues to pull and struggle to get loose from her hold. “Patrick, sweetie, you need to calm down,” the nurse explains, her face, and everything else about her, calm in the heat of the situation, as Pete’s heart continues to shatter every time it beats against his chest.

Tears fall from the cinnonmon blonde haired boy’s eyes down his red cheeks in rivers, gasping for breath as he struggles. “I want everything to _stop hurting_! Don’t you understand, _I want it all to stop!”_ he cries desperately, fighting against their hold, so much so that the beanie he was wearing falls from his head.

Seconds later, Pete spots two other nurses enter the room, along with a man in a black button up shirt and jeans, and a woman dressed in a hot pink blouse, black pencil skirt with black heels and black painted nails, a white doctor’s coat over her outfit.

One of the nurses, grabs the other wrist that Pete had and does similar to Hayley, holding it to his side. “Patrick, it’s Nurse Benji,” the new nurse explained calmly to the teen. “We’re not trying to hurt you, buddy, we’re trying to stop you from hurting yourself, but you have to relax and calm down.”

Patrick continues to struggle, making frustrated noises as Pete watched on helplessly, tears falling from his own eyes as he did. He doesn’t think as moved in closer, gently cupping Patrick’s cheeks in his hands. “Patrick, look at me,” he begged, but when the boy didn’t do what he asked, still fighting against the nurses holding his wrist, he said it louder, “Look at me!” Blue-hazel eyes shot open, his pupils wide, the hazel in his eyes just a ring. “Stop it… _I love you_ , please stop you're only making it worse.” Pete whispered desperately.

Something inside of Patrick broke at the words as the voice in his head roared in laughter, mocking him. _‘Now he’s using your feelings for him against you, he’s a lair, he doesn’t mean it, you don’t mean shit to him’_.  Patrick shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut at the voice, at the world, at everything. “You’re lying,” he gasps out, shaking his face out of Pete’s hands, “You’re lying… _Stop lying to me_!” he cries and he fights even harder against the two nurses.

Patrick’s words stab him in the chest as he stands there, frozen in shock, so much so that he doesn’t fight against the feeling of someone pulling him away from Patrick with a firm hand on his shoulder, everything in his body feels cold and numb, and he feels like the world is running in slow motion as the other nurse comes in, looking nearly identical to the nurse named Benji, and comes up to help hold Patrick, helping as they try to steady his right arm, as the lady in the doctor’s coat produces a covered injection and a packaged sterile wipe from her pocket. There’s a quick swab of his the crease in his arm, and the doctor uncaps the needle, and with a steady hand, despite Patrick’s struggle, sticks the needle into his arm and pushes the plunger slowly.

The results are almost immediate. Patrick’s rapid breathing begins to slow, and the tugs and pulls to set his wrist free get weaker. The nurses continue to talk to him, telling him that it’s _‘okay_ ’ and to _‘relax’_ and _‘don’t fight it’_. Pete watches as his childhood best friend begins to fall limp against the nurse behind him, his eyes hooded and face blank.

They maneuver Patrick to sit on the sofa in the room, easing him back gently. “Can you get a wheelchair and a bed ready for him,” the lady doctor tells both of the twin nurses, “I’m going to want him in Observation for 72 hours,” she says with a sad sigh. Both nurses nod, and as they leave, the lady doctor kneels in front of Patrick, patting his knee gently and brushing the bangs out of his eyes before saying something to him, too soft for Pete to hear. She stands and makes her way over to Pete, staring at him for a moment before excusing herself out of the room.

Pete looks back at the docile, sedated Patrick sitting on the sofa, looking dazed, nearly lifeless, and the dagger in his heart feels like it’s being twisted. _‘I..I caused this, I did this to him,’_ he thinks numbly. He looks over at the flame haired nurse, who quietly motions him to sit, which he does carefully, as if walking on glass. He sits on the opposite side of Patrick, his body acting on its own accord as he reaches over to cup the his cheek, wiping away the fresh tears that begin to fall from dead eyes, ignoring the way his own cheeks feel red and damp as his eyes burn with unshed tears. Somehow, Patrick reacts to his touch and slowly turns his head to face Pete, the action itself sluggish, before his eyes flutter shut, a fresh set of tears begin leaking from his eyes, as he falls onto Pete’s chest, his head resting on his shoulder as he does. Pete is quick to wrap his arms around the seventeen year old, holding him close as his sobs escapes him, burying his face in soft strawberry blonde hair at the crown of his head.

The voices in his head are quiet now. The eerie silence in his mind is a welcomed relief that he never knew he needed. His body feels heavy, almost as if his insides turned into cement, weighing him down, making even the simplest of movements difficult. Everything is muffled too, like he's underwater, which makes it a little difficult for him to hear, but he can make out rhythm of a heartbeat against his ear as it lulls him, calming him. Pete’s arms around his shoulders feel nice, too, it’s grounding in a way that’s hard to explain, but something stirs inside of him when he feels Pete’s body shake, a sob reaching his ears, but it’s faraway, as if on the other side of the wall built by the medication in his veins.

“I’m sorry, Patrick,” he hears, Pete’s sobs muffled by the drugs in his system, “It won’t happen again, I swear.” Patrick wants to tell Pete that he’s sorry too, that he’s sorry for being a failure, for being fucked up, but he can't speak, his mouth feels full of cotton. He feels gentle kisses being placed on his head, which sparks a warmth in his chest that he hadn’t felt from anyone but his Mom in months. It feels like a burning ember that’s just holding on to the kindling in the depths of his his chest, fighting to stay lit. It makes more tears fall from his eyes as he uses all of his strength to weakly grasp onto the soft fabric Pete’s hoodie.

And maybe, just maybe, Patrick feels like he might have a chance at life.

...

From the doorway leading to the other room, Gerard, along with Tyler, watch the entire scene unfold, the others leaving to the patio or their rooms when Patrick started to raise his voice.

“You haven’t come out in public in a while,” Gerard noted as he stood beside Tyler’s body, the person occupying it at the time wasn’t exactly _Tyler_.

“Had a feeling something was going to happen...and I’d rather not let Tyler see his new friend get sedated….” Blurryface answered easily, leaning against the door.

“That’s considerate of you,” Gerard mused. “We haven't had a public Code 1000 during visitation since I had my last ‘break’”. He watched Tyler's head nod in agreement.

“Looks like Patrick will be MIA for a little bit, Tyler’s not going to be too happy about that,” Blurry sighed before moving further into the room when Nurse Joel returned with a wheelchair. “Poor kid.”

“I know, sad to see him like that, just glad the others left when they did,” Gerard agreed, following Tyler’s alter to another room. “That guy, Pete…you think he’s a trigger or…”

Blurry shrugged, “I’m not sure, maybe both, but if he turns out to be a trigger, I’ll have no problem keeping him away from Patrick.” Gerard quirked a curious eyebrow Blurry’s way as he kept on walking. Blurry simply smiled, something promising in it as he did. “Patrick is Tyler’s friend, hence mine to protect. Don’t you worry you’re pretty artistic head, if he is out friend's trigger, I’ll protect Patrick.”

Gerard chuckled and smiled softly, moving to catch up with Blurry to find the others.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry...I'm evil I know, but I do want to remind everyone that this one does have a happy ending, I promise, and we're almost there! 
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me, I know I take forever with updates, but I can't help it, my job drains me most days, and the only reason I really got to finish this and take my time writing it in one-sitting was because I had a three-day weekend from work (yay!) 
> 
> Comments, kudos, and feedback/suggestions are more than welcomed (and they're encouraging =]) or you can stop by my Tumblr and bother me there <3
> 
> Thank you for reading Xoxo


	5. I'm Holding Out and I'm Holding On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda a short chapter, but it felt right, to say the least!
> 
> Hope you all enjoy
> 
> All mistakes are mine as my fics are unbeta'd

72 hours… 3 days under ‘Observation’, but Patrick’s not an idiot, no he’s far from it; he knows ‘Observation’ is just another term for ‘Suicide watch’. Gone is his white hospital coded bracelet, which is now replaced with red, like the first time he entered the facility, the bleach-clean smell of hospital disinfectant fresh in his mind. 

_‘Red bracelet means Crisis….red means you’re a danger to yourself of others…’_

The tranquilizer that numbed his veins, turning his insides into chilled snow, has long since worn off, leaving him empty, drained, and listless in the bare room that was nothing like the shared little enclave that he had with Tyler for the last three weeks. There was no soft blankets, no small reminders of home, of music blasting from the mini FM pocket radio that Tyler’s boyfriend, Josh, had snuck in for them (that Nurse Hayley raised an eyebrow at during room checks, but let it slide, as upon further expectation, was deemed, ‘safe’ for the room), of comics and hushed conversations when Patrick’s dreams or Tyler’s past wouldn’t let either one of them sleep through the night.

He’s only been 10 hours into his ‘Observation’ and about 8 of those hours have been him drifting in and out of consciousness; that freaking tranquilizer really did a number on him, he’s never felt so drained before.

“I overheard them at dinner yesterday,” Nurse Hayley smiled when she came in during waking period. As it turned out, when the teenager clawed at his arms, some of his already healed stitches came loose, as well as some that were not completely. While he was still under sedation, and when Pete was whisked away for a brief moment by Mark, his stitches were removed (he was already set to have them removed later that afternoon) and the deepest parts of his still healing cut, tinged red with blood, was covered in a thin clear liquid, which the flame hair nurse explained was ‘skin glue’. The rest of his injury mostly healed over, but he continued to request for his arms to be bandaged, unable to bare to look at them and listen to the voices in his laugh and taunt about what a failure he was for still living.  Hayley always gave him a sad smile as she gently smoothed an ointment over the raised pink scars on his arms, contrasting loudly against his pale skin before she wrapped them loosely in gauze as she continued. “They we’re talking about a visiting schedule, they wanted to make sure you weren’t alone when your visitor leaves…”

“Where’s Pete?” the younger boy asked quietly, his voice somewhat rough from sleep and disuse, his mouth feeling full of cotton. He vaguely recalls someone holding his hand during the brief moments of consciousness and Green Day playing softly like a lullaby, his eyes barely cracking open to see the familiar figure of the boy he grew up with, the same boy who fueled the flame of his breakdown less than 12 hours ago, but who held on to him like a life line thrown out to a drowning man in a raging sea.

_He’s hurt you, thrown you to the side like a rag doll, but yet, he’s holding on to you for dear life?...Pathetic…_

It’s confusing Patrick too, so much so that just thinking about it is making his head hurt.

“He’s talking with Mark and with Dr. Lavigne. We tried sending him home, but he’s a stubborn one, he hasn’t left your side since we got you a bed…” Hayley smiles as she finishes securing his bandages. “He’s pretty hard on himself for causing this, but, that’s just from what I can see. He should be back in a little bit.” He watches, still somewhat drowsy, but the nurse explained that his exhaustion was a result from his crashing adrenaline from his ‘episode’ as well as the effects of the tranquilizer they gave him. “Do you want me to tell Tyler to bring you anything from your room? Maybe a book or something to keep you occupied?”

 _‘A razor if anyone has one stashed so I can put an end to all of this this,’_ he thinks bitterly in his head, but replies simply with a shake before he feels a familiar pull of sleep calling him back into the shadows.

“Sleep tight, Sweetie,” is the last thing he hears from the kind nurse as he yawns, eyes drifting closed, as her hand on his wrist gives a gentle squeeze.  And for some reason, Patrick remembers the words he’s head once in one of Pete’s worn and mangled notebooks, a melody coming instantly to him as the words swirl around in his mind.

_Mr. Sandman showing his beam. When he walks into the room the walls lean in to listen…_

...

“What is Patrick to you?”

“He’s…he’s my best friend…more than my best friend…”

Mark nodded as he sat next to the older boy. “I called his mom, and Ms. Stump gave me the green light to share medical informational with you, as she thinks that you might be beneficial to Patrick’s treatment and recovery, but that’s only if you want-”

“I want to help him, man. I let him down which is why he’s even in here in the fucking first place,” Pete sighs, his hands gripping tightly at his hair, as if trying to rid himself of the image of panicked blue-green eyes, and the way Patrick scrapped his nails down his arm.

_“You’re lying…Stop lying to me!”_

“I never wanted any of this to happen,” the older boy whispered, “ _I’m_ the fucked up one. _I’m_ the one who should have ended up here, never Patrick.”

The counselor eyes Pete curiously from where he sat, intrigued. “Can you explain that for me, Mr. Wentz.”

“Pete.”

Mark nods before rephrasing his question."Can you explain that for me, Pete.”

Pete sighed before standing up, pacing, making his way over to the bookshelf of trinkets and objects that Mr. Hoppus kept. “You’re a counselor, so I know you’re going to try to pick my brain in order to help Patrick. I’ll save you some of the nitty, gritty shit. I'm diagnosed with Bipolar I with mixed features, I think it's called, So I’ve been through my fair share of shrinks. And only my mom and dad know about it, not my siblings, not my friends, not even Patrick. It's like a family secret of sorts.” he picks out a bean-bag of sorts, but it’s filled with rice, the weight of it sitting snugly into the palm of his hand. “I know what it’s like to want to end your life, when your life is going to absolute shit and think you have no way out,” he says distantly, rolling the stress rice bag between his palms, feeling the grains of rice press through the fabric onto his skin. “He’s the only reason I didn’t do it,” Pete whispers, loud enough to still be heard. Mark doesn’t interrupt, so he continues. “I almost took all my Ativan my Freshman year of college, I had notes written out and everything; to my parents, my brother, my sister…but I couldn’t finish the one to Patrick. I just couldn’t.” Pete thinks about to being alone in his dorm, his roommate gone for the weekend, and everything going to shit. Jeanne called him and voiced the words his mind kept repeating, his grades were slipping, and he was threatened by his coach that if he didn’t get his act together, they would take away his scholarship. His pills were the only things keeping him functioning. He remembers tearing out pages of his notebook and writing letters, but when it came to Patrick’s, he broke down in the quiet of his room; he couldn’t fathom the idea of his best friend reading his final words, of crying at his casket, hell would Patrick even cry?. ‘ _I couldn’t do that to him’_ , he couldn’t out Patrick through that kind of pain, he didn’t deserve that.

“My friends from my soccer team found out about my low and got me into some therapy sessions with the counselor on campus. I only went for a few sessions, but it helped. Seeing Patrick more helped, too.” Pete remembered how he would make visits back home, picking up Patrick right after the final bell rang out and spend nearly the entire weekend with him. He found himself longing to be the one to make the younger boy smile and laugh, wanting to never let go when the time came for him to leave back to campus. 

_“Promise you’ll text me, jerk-face. That you’ll keep in touch…”_

_“I promise Trick.”_         

“Did he know about your attempt?” asked Mark, watching the dark haired boy pace the room, fiddling with the bean bag in his hands.

“No, no one but my teammates did. It would kill my parents if they ever found out.”

“And Patrick?”

Pete froze for a moment. _‘If Patrick ever found out…I couldn’t bear to put him through that._ “No, he’s the last person I wanted to hurt, I don’t even want to think about what would happen if I had told him.”

The counselor nodded, scribbling something down on a legal pad before him before taking a sip of his soda, the one he offered Pete sitting unopened before his vacated chair. He leaned back into his chair as he watched Pete for a moment before speaking.

“You protected him.”  Another nod from Pete, his eyes looking into his palms as he played with the bean bag, the weight of it grounding him. “Why?”

Pete looked up at that, an eyebrow raised at the question. “That’s a stupid question, dude.”

Mark simply chuckled. “They’re no such thing as a stupid question in counseling; it usually stems or leads to something.” He looks over at Pete, tapping out a rhythm that Pete thinks sounds familiar to a bass line. “Why didn’t you tell him, Pete?”

“Because I didn’t want to hurt him,” he automatically blurts out without so much of a thought. Over his last few sessions with his campus counselor, he’s found that speaking what’s on your mind is more therapeutic than actually overthinking your answers; he didn’t seen a point in stopping the practice now, especially if it was going to help Patrick.

“Why didn’t you want to hurt him?”

“He’s my best friend…and..and I…” the words are stuck in this throat, like a lump he can’t force out. Pete’s barely coming to terms with his feelings, however the thought that he’s neglected them for so long and pushed away the one person he fucking _cared_ about, still burns like a coals resting on the gut. He tries to force the words out, but the ever present voice in his head hisses darkly in his mind. _‘If you do care for him like you did, he wouldn’t be in isolation in a mental facility…you’re a fucking coward who destroys everything good with a single touch. Look what happened to Patrick; YOU did this…’_

“Pete?” Mark calls out gently, seeing the older boy lost in thought. Pete looks up, the fog in his eyes clearing ever so slightly from being lost in thought. “Come take a seat, if you will.” The counselor gestures to the chair in front of him.  Pete looks at it wearily, before sitting, bean bag still in his hand as he opens the soda can, taking a quiet sip as the caffeinated sugar coated his mouth in sweetness.

“Pete, what I’m about to disclose to you should be strictly confidential, however, since Patrick is a minor, his mother did give me permission to disclose some medical information to you, as she feels that you might be beneficial to treatment. That being said, I’ve had some sessions with Patrick. I’ve had conversations with Patrick about friendships, but he claims he doesn’t have any friends,” he started off easily. Pete looks up at that, the hurt clearly in his eyes. He doesn’t speak, instead lets the other man continue. “I’ve had a session like this with his mom when he first came in. Your name was mentioned a few times. When I asked Patrick about you, he referred to himself as a stupid kid and even questioned ‘why would he waste his time on me’.” The hurt in whiskey eyes intensified. “He did mention something else, and I want to ask you, because I feel like this might be the key to helping him overcome the demons in his head.” Mark proceeded with the next few words carefully. “He said. ‘You didn’t hear what he said’. He cut the session after that. Pete, can you elaborate on what that might mean?”

Had…had Patrick really said that?

He feels something akin to a hot knife stabbed deeply into his gut at the words, the guilt overcoming him tenfold as reminders of that night came flashing back, repeating in his head like a broken movie projector.

 _“Patrick, really? I’m not going to keep babying you, dude, my…my world doesn’t fucking revolve around_ you _…”_

**“ _Fucking_ deal _with it, Patrick”_**

“Pete?” He’s drawn out of the memory by the older man, looking at him curiously.

Pete meets his eyes and gathers what left of his bearings, pushing down the hot coil of shame that burn in the pit of his stomach and the voice that laughs tauntingly in his head. He needs to do this…he needs to tell the truth for Patrick.

“That night…the night he-he tried to kill himself…he called me, and I-I-I was kinda drunk,” Pete sighs shakily, running a hand through his hair. “I was drinking him away, trying to get rid of my feelings for him, because, let’s be real, he’s 17, I’m 22, we wouldn’t exactly be accepted, but-,” Pete paused, his chest heavy with lead like guilt, “but he called me and I…I told him things. I left him alone when he needed me…” he confessed softly, his eyes filled with dread and anger. “I told him to deal with it…and he did…I never wanted this to happen.”

The older man simply seemed to nod, letting the silence sit in the room over them like a heavy blanket before continuing. “Pete, I want you to understand something,” Mark starts out calmly. “Patrick is mentally in a place where he feels isolated and alone; he’s guarded. It’s taken him weeks to fee, l comfortable around our other patients here, but slowly but surely, he’s cautiously opening up. However, I think the one person that he needs reassurance and support from is the he’s been pushing away the most –you.” Pete looks up at, something akin to a small sliver of home tingling throughout his body.

“I’m going to tell you this bluntly, man; you have to get over this, and decided whether or not your feelings for him are genuine and if you want to act on those, because ignoring those feelings not only push him away, but cause a lot of emotional stress on yourself; it’s not healthy,” Mark chuckles slightly, to which Pete can’t help but chuckle in return, because it sounds like something his old therapist would tell him.

“Fuck, I guess you’re right.”

“Possibly, but I understand you’re still trying to gauge your feelings for Patrick, even though I’m pretty sure you already know where you stand, but right now Pete, Patrick needs someone he can trust without judgement. Talking to a parent is not the same as talking to a friend, which is why I discussed with his mom, hence the reason she suggested you.”

“He called me a lair, so how do I get the trust back?” Pete questioned softly, images of a panicked Patrick, wide-eyed and clearly not in the right state of mind flash through his head.

“Be there for him. Show him he can trust you again. He’s going to be defensive, but I have a feeling that he’ll slowly open up to you again with time.” Pete nodded before Mark continued. “Pete know you’ve heard what Patrick had gone through the night he tried to commit suicide, but I have a feeling that, when the time is right, sharing your personal experience will help him overcome his own. Currently, Patrick meets all the criteria that is associated to trauma, even possible Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, but having him be able to trust someone enough to share that trauma will be the key to recovery.”

“I want to help him get better,” Pete swallowed as he looked at Mark. “I-I want Patrick to get better, even if he doesn’t feel the same about me, I want to see him happy again.” An echo in his mind cuts through his mind, _‘I want my Patrick back.’_ Is a silly, childish thought, but Pete feels that those words where the truest form of his heart speaking. He wants to see Patrick happy, wants to listen to him sing along with Green Day in the car, wants to go record shopping with him again, to hug him and hold on tight and never let go…

He never wants to let go of the golden heart and soul that’s purely _Patrick._

His answer seems to be enough for Mark who smiles at him.

He’ll try his damn hardest to help Patrick get better.

He has to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE!!! 
> 
> I have come to the conclusion that this 'original two-shot' will no longer be such a thing (I was in denial). This one might be a long one, and it won't be smooth sailing for either of the boys...BUT this one WILL have a happy ending. I'm trying to be more regular in updating my fic (keyword: trying), and since I changed up my schedule a bit, I've been getting a lot more done! Hence hopefully I wont be updating every three month (I feel so terrible for the wait and I am forever sorry). As always, let me know what you think! And kudos and comments are always greatly appreciated.
> 
> If you have any suggestions or prompts feel free to leave them here or on my [Tumblr](http://shatteredmirrors-and-lace23.tumblr.com/) (aka shamless self-promoting), where I accept prompts and will post snippets up fics. I'm hoping to update my coffeeshop AU before I post any more one shots, so please bare with me while I try to be an organized human being (and continue to fail while I'm at it), but I do promise I have some prompts and fluffy one-shots ready to post once that's update.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, your support, and above all your patience! You all are simply the greatest.  
> -Xoxo


	6. Bring On the Rapture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A MILLION thank yous to my amazing Beta [Flame_and_Jade](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Flames_and_Jade/pseuds/Flames_and_Jade) who took the time to look over this and correct all my grammatical errors and made several amazing suggestion that rally helped make this chapter flow a lot better. Please go check out her fics, especially her "War is Won", it's absolutely fantastic.
> 
> I wasn't 100% sure about the chapter title, so just a heads up that it might change.  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Pete’s footsteps echo in the hall, ignoring the way the sterile walls remind him of the hospital, the smell of disinfectant bringing forth memories. Memories of fresh white bandages against alabaster skin and a small figure in a too-small bed hooked up to an organized-but-tangled web of IV’s and machines. But this wasn’t the hospital, well, not exactly. Pete had to remind himself that this was a treatment center, and that Patrick’s not unconscious and fighting for his life. Patrick’s alive, and awake, but he’s still fighting. And Pete wants to be there fighting his demons alongside him, if Patrick would let him. _‘You want to help him,”_ hisses a voice in the shadows of his mind, _‘But you can’t even fight your own monsters, besides, you opened the door for the monsters to enter, didn’t you? He asked for his knight in shining amour and what did you do? Nothing. You did nothing…He’s here because of YOU.’_ He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to expel the voice from the confines of his mine, only for it to retreat, gleaming white teeth slithering back into the shadows. At least it was quiet, for now.

His meeting with Mark Hoppus, Patrick’s counselor, made him realize that he had to put his own demons aside in order to help Patrick, and when the time was right, they would fight their battles together, hand in hand. But until then, Pete was determined to prove himself to his best friend.

‘ _You have to earn his trust again, show him you care.’_ Mark had advised him, so he would do just that, no matter what it takes.

As he made a left down a familiar hall that led to Patrick’s room, he spots another boy with short dark hair and a black hoodie standing by the door, talking the Hayley, the nice, flame-haired nurse. As he approaches, the teen looks at him before nodding to the nurse, who makes her way down the hall in the opposite direction in her vibrant purple scrubs.

“Are you here to see Patrick?” asked Pete as he got closer to the teen. The boy looked at him skeptically and nodded, looking hesitant before extending his hand. “Yeah, I’m…Tyler, Patrick’s my roommate.”

Pete perked up at that, not knowing Patrick had a roommate. “Oh, cool man, nice to meet you, I’m Pete–”

“Yeah, we know who you are,” he cuts shortly, sending him a small glare. “Hard not to after the Crisis you made him go through.”

Pete couldn’t help but feel the wind knocked out of him, as if he had been kicked right in the gut by this guy he’s barely met. Shell-shocked with his mind rattling around for words, Tyler takes a step closer, something about him shifting in a way Pete can’t describe, something that puts him on edge and ready to fight if he had to. “Look, I don’t care how you know him, or who you are, but if you’re more trouble then you’re worth, you won’t be welcome around Patrick,” Tyler says easily, his hands slipping into his pockets.

It feels like a threat, and it sounds like one, like a knife being held to his throat and Pete’s speechless. “What do you mean?”

His shoulders are too rigid and too relaxed at the same time as he stares Pete down with a blank expression, cold. “We protect what’s ours, and if you end up being a trigger to Patrick, we’ll have you removed. I don’t like it when Tyler’s friends are hurting. It gets him upset.”

“I’m not trying to make him worse, okay?” starts Pete, finding it in himself to stand his ground. “I’m trying to make up for my fuck-ups and help him get better.”

The other boy looked unfazed, so Pete continued on. “I care about him, I do, that’s why I’m here. I’m not going to let him go through this alone.” Something then clicked in his mind, his body freezing up in the slightest as fits the words in his mind before voicing them aloud. “Wait...you said that you don’t like it when Tyler’s friends are hurt…but you’re Tyler…”

Nonchalantly, ‘Tyler’ shrugged, making his way past Pete in the hall. “I guess I am,” Pete looked at him puzzled, his mind trying to grasp what the fuck was being said. “You’re the only visitor Patrick’s allowed until you leave, that being said, we’ll be visiting him then. We’ll be keeping tabs on you, just so you know.” The younger boy said easily, Pete watching his back as Patrick’s roommate made his way down the hall, leaving an air of tension and warning in his wake and a chill in the pit of his gut.

There was something about the whole situation that made Pete feel uneasy, something that told him that this was a threat that should be taken seriously, or that he should run, but at the same time, there was this certain…relief. A relief that there was someone watching out for Patrick’s well-being within the walls of the Center, that someone cares about Patrick, that Patrick has someone on the inside, a friend.

At least Pete hopes he’s a friend.

After another moment, still feeling puzzled and unsure, he made his way to Patrick’s door, taking a deep breath before opening the door. The room was quiet and Patrick looks somewhat dazed still, but more present and to his senses than he was before Pete had left.

“Hey,” Pete greets softly, making cautious footsteps towards that plastic chair he had been occupying before he was called out, right by the younger boy’s bed.

There was no response, not that Pete was expecting one. Their eyes met for a brief moment, Pete catching the guarded look in the strawberry blonde’s eyes before Patrick averted them, his features schooled and blank.

Pete didn’t know what hurt more, the fact that Patrick didn’t show emotion, or the fact that he couldn’t meet his eyes. Pete loved his eyes.

When he sits down, Patrick still doesn’t look at him, instead looking blankly at something on the wall, his eyes still unfocused and faraway as the sedation continues to run its course. He doesn’t know what to say, what to do to make Patrick talk to him, to acknowledge him, to give him the courage to lay everything on the table. Pete’s lost as to what to do, lost in what he’s feeling, trying his hardest not to crawl into the bed and wrap his arms around the younger boy, like they used to do.

Pete’s been wanting to do that since he last saw him when he was admitted the first time. But now Patrick’s awake, Patrick’s alive, and he’s _stunted_.

He’s not sure how much time passes, seconds, minutes, or hours, but the empty of the room is closing in on him, and the silence is deafening, testing him, mocking him. He can’t stand this.

“Please,” Pete whispers out, pleading, his hands tugging at his hair slightly, “Please say something, ‘Trick.”

Another beat of silence, and nothing. He tries again. “Please, talk to me, Patrick,” he’s desperate, he needs to hear something out of the younger.

“You don’t have to be here.” Patrick’s whisper cuts through the room.

Pete exhales shakily at the sound of his voice, soft, barely there, but fucking _there_. “What if I want to be?” asked the older boy gently.

“You don’t want to be here.”

“Yes I do.”

Patrick’s silence and faraway eyes reaffirm what the younger boy is thinking, so Pete continues on, fighting to reach out to him, trying to hold on for dear life. “I want to be here, Patrick, I should have been there from the beginning, but I wasn’t.” The dark haired boy swallows. “Nothing can undo that, but I’m here now,” he says as he reaches to place his hand over Patrick’s, who instead carefully tucks his hand away under the dull blanket of his bed.

“I just want to go to sleep,” Patrick whispers, his voice far off as he turns his back and brings his knees up to his chest. He doesn’t want Pete to be here, he doesn’t want to be reminded of the continuous lies and the pain, and just…everything. _‘I just want to sleep and not wake up’_ is the thought that rings through his head.

“It’s okay, just rest, Trick,” is all Pete says as gazes dejectedly at Patrick’s back, wishing he could make the strawberry blonde believe his worlds, to make the blue-green eyes of his come to focus and light up like they used to. He wants to right every wrong that has even happened, every self-critical, negative thought in his head. Pete just wants to give him the happiness he deserves, the happiness he’s always deserved. Pete wants that more than anything.

Pete wants that more than living.

He can’t help but watch at Patrick’s breath evens out, the soft rise of his side evening out, slowing as the minutes tick by. But Pete doesn’t leave, instead stays in his hard plastic chair, keeping himself occupied with his phone as he sneaks glances at the sleeping boy every chance he gets, thinking of ways to talk to Patrick, of making him see that he _is_ here now, but Pete, with all his words and lyrics, poems and riddles that make their way onto pages of his composition book or the notes in his phone, simply couldn’t mend the words; nothing clicks.

It was about an hour into Patrick’s sleep, as Pete glared heavily at the screen of his phone, opened to a blank page of notes, that he got mad. Mad he couldn’t force the words out, couldn’t find the right way to describe the colors and emotions that riddled his mind. Words could not describe what he was feeling, he could never decipher them, put them into letters and words and sentences to show Patrick how he really felt. Pete wishes he could show Patrick the inside of his mind, show him the melodies that words cannot capture, but Pete retracts his wish, not wanting to let Patrick glance at the shadows that linger in his mind, even to this day.

He couldn’t do that to him.

As Pete leans back his chair, back popping painfully at the movement, he hears a whimper. Another one comes, but louder, scared. Pete looks at Patrick’s back, standing as the body draped in the blanket shudders and trembles, as a whine cuts through the empty room.

“Please no….please stop,” Patrick grasps, his pleads followed by a sob and another round if tremors.

Pete’s already around the bed, kneeling to look into Patrick’s sleeping face. He’s grasping on to the pillow for dear life as tears fall steady down his cheeks, his face screwed into a grimace of pain. Patrick lets out another whine before his breath quickens, more words falling from his lips in a seemingly senseless babble.

“Patrick, wake up,” Pete says gently, resting a hand on the one Patrick’s has curled into the pillows, knuckles white. “Come on, Trick, you gotta wake up.” He places a hand on the younger boy’s trembling shoulder, shaking it firmly. From the corner of his eyes, Pete can already see of the nurses by the window, making sure to be available if things continue to escalate. He appreciates the help, but goes back to the strawberry blonde in front of him, his whimpers getting louder, his mind lost in a nightmare that Pete so desperately wants to soothe away. “Come on, baby,” he says without so much as a thought, the endearment slipping easily off his tongue. “Come, Patrick, you’re safe, you gotta wake up for me please?” he says louder.

Patrick’s eyes, blue-green with the most stunning shade of hazel around the iris, snap open and his breath catches within his chest. He shoots up into a sitting position, hand over his heart and the tears continuing to stream down his face as his tries to calm his breathing. He looks around like a frantic animal, caged and alone.

Pete scoots back to sit on the edge of the bed, hands up and held apart in case the closeness as too much. But as soon as he does, Patrick seems to see him for the first time, and falls into him with a sob, burying his face into the soft fabric of Pete’s hoodie as the older boy’s arms wrap securely around his shaking frame. “It’s okay, I got you,” Pete coos into Patrick’s hair, “It was just a nightmare.”

The younger boy cries into his hoodie for a while longer, his hold on Pete never faltering, even after his sobs died down. It was like the only thing Patrick could focus on was the warmth of the body underneath the hoodie and the beating of the heart near his ear, and Pete’s soft words, grounding him. “It’s okay…I got you…I’m not letting you go, not any more…I’m here now Trick.”

 _‘Lies lies lies!’_ the voice in his hisses, poison dripping from its words as it slithers in the dark of his mind. _‘He’s using you, he won’t last forever, he’ll leave you like before.’_

 _‘No’_ Patrick counters softly, feeling like he’s staring down a strange manifestation of the thoughts in his mind. _‘No…this…feels different…”_

 _‘He won’t last…’_ the voice mocks, but the steady thumping of Pete’s heart is giving him a strength that he hasn’t felt before in a long time, giving him an inkling of courage that Patrick had thought was gone.

 _‘Maybe…but he’s here..’_ The creature moves to counter, to strike again with venom dripping from its fangs, but it doesn’t reach him, not when Pete’s rocking him gently, the movement causing him to drift back towards sleep…towards something that feels like peace.

“Pete?” he asks weakly, his body feeling heavy with sleep once more.

“It’s okay, Patrick,” the darker haired boy starts, his voice a gentle wave in the sea of sleep. “Go to sleep. I’m here, I’ll be here when you wake up again.”

A tiny smile crooks up the corners of his mouth at that thought, and he finds the courage to ask for the only thing he truly wants right now. “Stay here with me?”

“Yes. Anything you want.” And Patrick lets himself drift, surrounded by a warmth he couldn’t comprehend, couldn’t understand, but he didn’t question it, not this time, maybe later but not right now.

“I got you, you’re safe, ‘Trick…”

And Patrick, for the first time in long time, thinks he’s starting to believe him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww...that ended nicely....let's see how long that last...
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, your support, and your patience! Halloween is on Monday and [Flame_and_Jade](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Flames_and_Jade/pseuds/Flames_and_Jade) has been kind enough to look over my Suitehearts AU, so that should be up and posted on Monday as a little treat! I'm super excited to have that one posted considering how long it's been sitting in my folder. 
> 
> As always, feedback, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated! If you have any suggestions or prompts feel free to leave them here or on my [Tumblr](http://shatteredmirrors-and-lace23.tumblr.com/) (aka shamless self-promoting).
> 
> Thanks for reading!  
> -Xoxo


	7. Only Breathing with the Aid of Denial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the amazing [Flame_and_Jade](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Flames_and_Jade/pseuds/Flames_and_Jade)! 
> 
> Heads up, these next few chapters might be a little rough... That being said, please take note of the tags and the trigger warnings. Please do not read if easily triggered. 
> 
> ***Trigger Warning for self-harming thoughts.

Pete goes back to his own life the following day.

He’s resistant, hesitant to leave Patrick so he just nervously runs his thumb along Patrick’s knuckle. His hand is still limp in his own, however, the fact that Patrick is allowing him this contact when the day before he couldn’t have so much as touched him was progress in Pete’s book. “I’ll be back next weekend, okay?” Pete said softly, watching as Patrick continued to avert his gaze, his eyes trained solely on the blanket in his lap.

It had been nearly 12 hours since Patrick had woken up from his nightmare, from memories of harsh voices and cruel laughs. Of Shane Morris and his lackeys harassing him, laughing, tossing razors his way, pulling their phones out to record their morbid entertainment as he frantically slices away at his arms in hopes that _it would stop_ and that  

And it did. It did stop. He had woken up to worried whiskey eyes…To Pete…

He was _actually_ there.

Patrick let older boy hold him, melting into his embrace because he didn’t know what else to _do._ _Pete was actually there this time_. Pete stayed with him, rocking him back into another sleep, this time dreamless, safe, calm…and God knows he hadn’t slept like that in ages….

It felt right in Pete’s arms.

 _But it shouldn’t…_ _he’_ _s just letting you get close so that he can hurt you again…_ _you’_ _re such a weak-minded child…_                                                                                                        

Patrick had ignored the voice, shoving it away into the corner of his mind.

When he woke from his nap, he didn’t talk much, only let himself curl into Pete, grasping into the warmth of his hoodie as tanned hands rubbed his arms.

Until now.

Now, Pete had to leave— he had to go back to his life as a successful college student, as the perfect star of the soccer team…all while Patrick stayed lacked inside these walls, left alone with this thoughts and his scars and his messed up brain, and the countless nightmares of blood and laughs and of cries for help…

_He visits you out of pity…_

Patrick can’t push back the voice this time, he only clings tighter to Pete’s hoodie.

Pete notices the white-knuckled grip on his jacket, hugging the younger boy closer, burying his nose into honey brown-blonde hair. “It’s okay, ‘Trick, I’ll be here Saturday, okay?” he tries to soothe as gentle as he can, his thumb still rubbing over the knuckles of the hand that’s not clinging onto his hoodie for dear life.

“Promise?” The word is so soft, Pete nearly doesn’t hear it, he almost mistakes it for an exhale as Patrick’s voice comes out in a breathy whisper, sounding small and scared. It breaks Pete’s fucking heart to hear him like that.

“Yes,” Pete instantly breathes out, placing a chase kiss to the crown of Patrick’s head, the action itself feeling right—natural—to Pete, even as he tries to bring Patrick impossibly closer, as if trying to will his body to absorb him, encapsulate him, to keep him safe and protect him.

He wanted to carry Patrick everywhere he could with him…

“Yes, I promise, Trick,” Pete breathes again, knowing come hell or glory, he _needed_ to be here— he had to show Patrick that he was going to keep is word, to be there when he needed him.

There’s a knock on the door, and it’s one of the male twin nurses from the previous day. He looks apologetic as he motions towards Pete.

Pete’s time is up, he needs to leave, and his heart is breaking. He doesn’t want to leave, godamnit! He wants to stay with Patrick, wants to hold him, be there for him when he wakes up from a nightmare. Pete wants to see Patrick smile, wants to see those beautiful blue eyes of his light up when he hears Bowie or Costello…

Wait a minute…

Music…maybe…maybe that’ll help…

He mentally files it away for another day, something to discuss with Mark Hoppus over the phone, when there’s another insistent knock on the door. Pete simply glares before turning back to the boy in his arms.

As gently as he could manage he pries himself from Patrick, who stays statue-still, lifeless eyes not leaving the blanket.

God, if he could just steal Patrick, he would…

“ ‘Trick?” he calls out softly, and still no response. “I’ll see you soon, okay? Be good for me?”

There’s a slight nod, so small that if you had blinked, you would have missed it. But for Pete, that meant the world, that Patrick was willing to fight, to keep going, and Pete would be there to cheer him on.

He gives him a final hug, and this time, Patrick weakly reaches up for his hoodie before he pulls away and walks away, through the door to be escorted out, leaving Patrick alone back in the confides of his room in the psych ward.

‘ _I’_ _m alone again_ ,’ Patrick things softly, staring at his covered forearms, nearly fully-healed scars underneath the sterile gauze and wrapping, hiding his shame from the world.

He wonders how easily he could do it— reopening his wounds, bleeding out on the bed, to make the pain, the nightmares, and the loneliness disappear in a instant, to save the staff, his family, and _Pete_ the annoyance, to safe them from him, a waste of time, of space, or air…of life…

Pete didn’t need this as a burden. He didn’t want Pete to see him as a chore…

 _Because that’_ _s what you are, a chore. He doesn't_ _care about you, he pities you. Don’_ _t kid yourself, all this is an act! See how easily he turned his back and walked out?_

 _'But…_ _he had to leave…_ _Nurse Benji was knocking…”_

 _He could have stayed…_ _But he didn't b_ _ecause you’re WORTHLESS…_ _You don't_ _deserve his time…_

Patrick squeezes his eyes shut at the thoughts ringing in his head, trying to shove them back, lock them in a corner and leave him in peace…but they only snicker and disappear, leaving him confused and drained, wrecked…

Patrick’s not even sure he’ll make it to next Saturday…not when he’s already thinking of ways to make sure he bleeds out this time…

...

He’s allowed visits from the other patients, but one at a time, and feels a something resembling warmth grow dimly in his chest when they each come and see him throughout various times of the day. They often bring with them trinkets to help him pass the time, like cards, coloring pages, paints, or cookies from heaven knows where (‘Dude, they’re fucking amazing,’ he recalls Brendon saying, placing a cookie wrapped in a paper towel in his lap. Patrick, for Brendon’s sake, took a nibble; hunger and food long since forgotten in his mind, and admitted that yeah, they were pretty good), or just offering someone to talk to.

But nothing really works.

Blurry comes and visits him on his last day of Observation, inhabiting Tyler’s body for the time being. It’s rare when Tyler’s alter fronts for him, as it only happens when Tyler is either scared or mentally too exhausted to deal, as he explained to him after Patrick had met Blurryface for the first time.

In the back of his mind, Patrick dimly hopes Tyler will feel better and strong enough soon to front, but until then, Patrick is glad he’s being protected by his alter.

“You’re almost free,” Blurry grins, sitting down on Patrick’s bed, swinging his legs back and forth. “I’ll be nice to have you back, we’ve missed you terribly, Tyler especially.” Patrick simply nods, looking at his covered forearms, thinking, wondering…

Blurry looks over at him, curious, catching sight of his gaze before humming. “Thinking of hurting yourself again?” he asked nonchalantly. Patrick doesn’t answer, so Blurry continues. “Now, that isn’t smart…doing that would only land you back in here, and honestly, it’s quite boring…”

 _‘But it will make everything better…wouldn’t it?_ ’ he thinks, his eyes still trained on the white of the bandages contrasting against his skin.

“Patrick,” calls Blurry softly, tilting his head in order to meet the younger boy’s eyes. When he does, he notice’s the blankness in them, simply endless pools of ocean clear emptiness. “Oh, Patrick,” he says under his breath, pulling the honey blonde-haired teen to him in a hug. Patrick allows himself to be pulled in, his body going willingly as his mind just drifts.

“If he’s a trigger, Patrick…” Blurry hisses threateningly into his ear, heat in his voice. But a slight shake of Patrick’s head cuts him off. Blurry looks down, a quizzical look on his face as he pulls away slightly. “Are you sure? If he is, we’ll keep him away, we have our ways,” Blurry says easily, and far too casually with a not-so-subtly-veiled threat.

“No,” Patrick says softly, using his voice for the first time since Blurry or anyone walked into the room…the first time since Pete left. “I...I think he’s trying to…h-help me,” he mumbles as his voice trembles with uncertainly. But the words come out…odd, in a way, foreign to even him, almost as if he was trying to convince himself, to push back the voices in his head that tell him otherwise.

Another moment passes before Blurry simply nods and brings him in for another hug.

“Very well, then.” Blurry says soothingly, ”Just stay strong, Tyler doesn’t want to come out until you’re back—he’s gotten used you.” Patrick gives him another nod, before Blurry pulls away.

As he does, Patrick can’t help but feel yet another stone sink in his gut at the thought of another person dependent on him…Tyler…but Tyler was strong, why on earth would he be afraid without him…

For some reason…that thought didn’t sit well with Patrick…

...

The next day he was released, able to return back to the others, back to his room, back to his routine…back to his life within the walls…

 _You know you don't w_ _ant to be here…_ _you’_ _re better off dead than wasting these people’_ _s time…_

Patrick can’t find it in himself to fight back as he’s hugged by a waiting group of familiar faces that waited outside the double door of the Observation Ward for him. Tyler, the actual Tyler, is the first to him, enveloping him in a bear hug as soon as he passes through the doors.

“You’re out! Damn, man, I missed you! Blurry told me he visited you,” he started, his words flying a million miles a minute from his mouth, eyes looking over him for any injuries, worried. Patrick gives him a small smile as he nods, watching as Tyler’s shoulders sag with relief at his smile. Halsey and Lynn are the next ones to hug him, along with Gerard, Frank, Brendon and Mikey. They tell him that since his Crisis, Alex was discharged but passed along a message that he hoped Patrick would get better soon, promising to visit whenever he could.

Hayley suddenly appeared and greeted Patrick with a warm smile. “We’re going to be adjusting your schedule a bit to meet with Dr. Lavgine and Mark more often, just as a precaution…You’ll be meeting with Dr. Lavgine after lunch, okay Sweetie?” Patrick nods in understanding, knowing full well that they’re going to be changing his medications, and that he’ll have to actually _talk_ more to Hoppus…he’s hoping he can somewhat muster up the energy to bullshit his way through them…

Before he knows it, Halsey is linking her arm around his, motioning for him to follow the group at they make their way to the lunch room. It’s a familiar routine, one he’s been missing for the last three days. The seating in the same, except for the lone spot left vacant where Alex used to sit, the food is the same, and the conversations are similar, much of it revolving around what Patrick had missed during his 72 hour stay in Observation, which honestly wasn’t much.

After nibbling on a roll, not touching much of his lasagna, he simply sits and listen, watching the familiar back-and-forth banter, largely ignoring the worried looks from Gerard and Tyler over his lack of appetite. As lunch comes to an end and everyone broke off into their respective groups, Patrick sighed and started heading down a familiar hallway for his follow-up appointment with Dr. Lavgine …alone.

That was their first mistake.

As he walked down the hallway to Dr. Lavgine’s office, he passes the newer member of the janitorial crew, an older-looking man emptying out a trash can into a bigger bin. As he did, there was a sudden shattering that echoed through the hall, followed by a muttered curse.

Patrick turned to see the janitor looking frustrated and pieces of glass shattered along the tiled floor of the hall. As he shifts his feet, he hears a crunching from under his the soles of his shoes and he looks down, eyes catching on wayward fragments of glass that shattered his way… and there is was.

A perfect shard of glass. It wasn’t large, but somewhat small, the perfect size, just big enough to fit in the palm of his hand, the edge rough, jagged, but undeniably sharp…and _there_ …Free for the taking.

He looks up and sees that the janitor’s back is turned, far too busy looking for the right broom for a situation like this. Patrick quickly glances down the hall, searching for any soul who might be around, who might witness…

He quickly crouches down and snatches the shard in his hand, stuffing it securely into his pocket, letting his thumb ghost along the edge, tempted to test the sharpness...

“Hey!” Patrick’s heart drops as the janitor’s voice catches his attention, his eyes going wide with fear. Had he been caught? Was he not quick enough? He met the janitor’s eyes, fearfully, as he speaks.

“Watch your step, son. I don’t want you getting hurt by this glass. Hell, I don’t even know why there was one of the Starbucks frappa-whatever-you-call-it glasses in there…we’re a no-glass zone…”

Patrick can only find it in himself to nod as he releases a breath he didn’t even know he was holding, before continuing on his way, his fingers still on the cool glass in his pocket, something in his mind, his veins, his blood practically _singing._

Somehow…Patrick feels lighter than he should, despite the sudden onset of guilt creeping in the back of his mind like a cold chill at the thought of Pete...

 _“_ _Be good for me?”_

 _‘_ _Screw him…,_ ’ hisses the serpent like voice in his head, curling around his mind with an unseen grin, _‘_ _He can’_ _t cure your pain, he never has been there for you. The only relief you need is now in your pocket…_ _maybe this time you’_ _ll do the job right…’_

‘But…I promised…‘ he tries to reason weakly, fighting a losing battle with the thoughts in his head.

 _‘_ _You didn’_ _t promise SHIT,_ ’ the voice crackles in delight, lethal venom dripping from its fangs, curling tighter around Patrick’s mind. _‘Aww…_ _see? You’_ _re making up your own make-believe world once again, where you actually think he cares, that you actually have friends…_ _family that loves you…_ _You don’_ _t mean jack-shit to anyone, do you hear me? No one cares about a pathetic little runt like you. You’_ _re better off dead…’_

The guilt in his head disappears and is replaced by a hollowness, a cold numbness that makes his entire body grow cold as his head dips down and fingers dance urgently along the cool surface of the glass in his pocket as he reaches Dr. Lavgine’s office door. He doesn’t fight the thoughts in his head this time, doesn’t push them back into the dark corners of his mind like before…Instead it begins to consume him, tainting him like before, tempting him to the blissful promise of relief, of pain, of calm… _of quiet_ …and he feels something like peace, something like conviction and dedication fill him.

Pete asked him to be good…

Patrick’s not sure if he can anymore.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear...
> 
> Huge thanks goes out to [Flame_and_Jade](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Flames_and_Jade/pseuds/Flames_and_Jade) for cheerleading me through this chapter! Also, we're collaborating together on fic called [Remember Me As I Was (Not as I Am)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8889355) , which originally started out as an alternative ending for my other angst-fest of a one-shot "How to Save a Life" but evolved into something we're both so happy and proud to share with everyone! It's angsty at first, but we promise there will be fluff and smut and overall goodness! Go check it out and tell us what you think!
> 
> And as always, feedback, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading, dears!


	8. Fix Me in 45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is unbeta'd, all grammar mistakes are my own.

“How are you feeling about all of this, Patrick?”

A small shrug is the only answer he gives as he sits in the chair in Mark’s office, the walls painted to give off a warmth, but Patrick could only bring himself to feel cold, maybe even empty, numb…listless. He’s only been in session for about 20 minutes and has not uttered a single word, losing himself in a particular indention on the wooden desk in front of him—it almost looks like teeth marks, making him wonder if anyone has ever bitten the desk…

He’s been picking absentmindedly at his cuticles as his hands lay in his lap as his mind wanders off, probably due to the haze of medications that they have been giving him since his last Crisis. Everything had been upped as directed by Dr. Lavigne; more anti-depressants, more psychotropic medications with names Patrick didn’t quite recognize…they make him feel like he’s floating, fuzzy, and falling all at the same time, and he can’t feel solid ground.

He doesn’t like it.

 _‘Then do something about it’_ hisses a familiar creature on his mind as it slithers closer. Patrick feels it wrapping around his shoulders, edging closer to his throat as whispers into his ear. The boy had quickly learned that no amount of medication could keep the voices in his head away, the nagging thoughts, his daily doses of truth and conscious sung to him in three-fourths time, reminding him of the failure he was, of how worthless he is. ‘ _Just dig in a little deeper so you don’t wake up again…That shard would look lovely sticking out of your arm…All you’re doing is prolonging the inevitable._ ’

He knows he is, but he’s trying to be good.

Since he found the shard, he’s hid it safely away from the world, tucked within the cotton stuffing of one of his bed pillows, he only sleeps with one and doesn’t have use for the other. The only suspicious thing would be the two inch tear at the seam if someone really looked at it, but no one does. He’s passed room checks and inspections twice now, the pillow going unnoticed both time, and honestly, Patrick’s quite proud of himself for it.

He’s the only soul that knows about the shard, not Tyler, not Blurryface, not the nurses, or anyone else…just him.

‘ _Just in case of a rainy day’_ he tells himself, but the conscious only chuckles in the dark of his mind. ‘ _It’s been pouring since you woke up in the hospital…’_

He doesn’t reply, only thinks about the itch on his arms, on his thighs, the need to feel the burn of red on his skin, to make him forget, to add another few marks on his skin just to make the voices go away, to quiet them down, to let him think in peace.

Medication doesn’t make the thoughts go away, but the cutting did. Everything was white noise and glass still waters, a calm before the ever present storm.

Something’s going to happen…something always happens…

“Patrick?” His eyes meet those of Mark, eyes colored with concern as he sits across from the teen. “Patrick, how are you feeling?” He attempts to give another shrug but the counselor stops him mid-motion in a tone that sounds vaguely like his dad’s when he disappointed and wasn’t taking any of Patrick’s smart-ass responses. “With words please, shrugging doesn’t tell me anything other than you don’t want to talk.”

The honey-blond haired boy sighs. “I feel…out of it,” he finally says.

“It may be the medication,” Mark offers, writing something down on his legal pad, “It would be a good idea for you to talk about this with Dr. Lavigne during your next meeting with her, she could adjust them accordingly.”

“I guess,” Patrick says, looking down at his hands.

“Patrick,” Mark starts, “I know this last weekend hasn’t been the best,” Patrick wants to laugh at the understatement but can’t bring himself to do so, “And I know you’re not to fond of our sessions, and that’s perfectly okay, but if you at least talk with us, we can’t help you get out of here.”

Patrick only stays silent , letting the words sink into his skin, the creature in his head slithering around his shoulders with glee as he drips poison into his ear. _“He doesn’t want you here, you’re a burden to them, do you hear that? They want you gone, they don’t care…you should do them all a favor and finished what you started…’_

 He’s trying his hardest not to fall for the bait, but it’s tempting…so fucking tempting…

“Patrick, what is it that you want out of all of this?”

“What do I want?” he asks softly, as if tasting the words as the roll of his tongue.

“Yeah. What’s your goal—what is it you want to do?”

 _‘To make everything go away…to make the voices in my head stop…To sleep and never wake up again…’_ he hears himself whisper in the confines of his mind, the sound of his thoughts echoing off of the barren walls of his head, ricocheting and burning into him like bullets.

He wants to bleed, he wants to sleep…

“I just want it to stop,” Patrick hears himself speak aloud, his own voice barely loud enough to hear in the quiet of the room.

But Mark hears him, and nods slowly, his own features schooled and calm, every the professional.  Patrick wants to hurt him, want to yell and shake him for making him speak, for slowly chipping away at the walls he’s so carefully and meticulously built over the years of bullying, of the jabs and the hits, and the names and at kicks…

“Stop what Patrick?”

“Feeling like nothing is going to get better unless I end it.” He’s looking back at the assumed bite marks on the desk, imagining a small child sinking their teeth into the wood, wondering what would happen if he did the same…or if he were to sink his teeth into his own arm, would he bite down hard enough to draw blood or would it bruise?...It’s a wayward thought but it’s the only thing keeping him grounded in his medicated haze.

“Do you think it will get better if you killed yourself?”

Patrick nodded, feeling like he’s going to float away at any second the longer he stays in the guided cage they call a Roger’s. He doesn’t know what would be better, to float away in the haze or to just burst and disappear...

“There are people who would say otherwise, your mom, Pete….”

Something in Patrick stopped. It was like he was struck my lightening, fast and merciless, the thought of the older boy holding onto his hand for dear life, of holding him close when the nightmares and memories visited him and left him shaking and sobbing. He remembers the feel of a kiss to the top of his head when the sedative they had given him finally took affect…

He remembers his mom’s scream when she found him bleeding in his bedroom, the life flowing out onto the hardwood floors that he was certain he mother had to clean up. Her sobs are still fresh in his ear when he first woke up in the hospital, clinging to him her tears wetting his hospital gown as she cried with relief. Patrick remembers his hand between the both of hers as they talked to the program director…he never wanted to make her hurt like that…

Yet here he was.

He never wanted to hurt her, and he had promised Pete that he would be good.

‘ _You’re such a failure and a hypocrite_ ’ the voice in his mind taunts with venom dripping from his fangs. It’s getting to too much. ‘ _Shut up!_ ’ he fights back. ‘ _Shut up shut up!_ ’ he brings his hand up to his head, gripping tightly at his hair as he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to will the voice back into the shadows where it belongs.

“Patrick, what’s wrong?” he hears Mark ask, a little closer than he was before. Patrick begins curling in on himself in the chair as the thoughts and the voice begin to laugh, loud and berating. “Talk to me Patrick, tell me what’s going on.”

“It won’t stop!” he cries out , his breathing quickly escalating into rapid pants.

“What won’t stop?”

“They won't _shut up_ …” he breathes out shakily, as he feels his walls slowly crumble with every word he speaks. He can’t take it anymore, he can’t, _he can’t_ , _it’s too much_ …

It almost feels like something’s wrapping around his chest, tightening in a death grip as his lungs begin to struggle and burn for air, and the tears are slowly starting to fall. He can’t breathe, he can’t think, and he just wants it all to stop…

‘ _A razor to your wrist makes it all go away_ ,’ the voice sings darkly, hissing right into his ear with glowing yellow eyes. ‘ _Do it, kill yourself, you worthless piece of shit. You don’t deserve to live_.’ He’s got a white knuckle grip on his hair, pulling to tugging hoping the that pain would be enough to keep the voices and the lethal thoughts at bay, but nothing’s working…

“Patrick, I need you to listen to me and focus on my voice…you’re safe. Focus on my voice, listen to me…” He’s trying, he really is, but he feels like he’s lost at sea and he’s trying to keep his head above the surface but the waves keep coming and the salt water is filling his mouth and burning his lungs. “I need you to focus on a memory, a happy one, one about your mom, one about Pete…”

As he feel’s himself dip under the water of panic, _he can see his mom, can see her in the kitchen making pancakes like how she’s done since he was little, a smear of peanut butter between each layer, and drizzled with syrup, he thinks about the last breakfast they had together where they sat on the couch, plates of pancakes in their laps while watching the newer Star Trek because she knew it was his favorite. She curled up near the arm, her coffee balanced artfully on the side table, while Patrick preferred to sit on the floor, his own plate resting on crisscrossed legs as he leaned back against the sofa._

_He remembers her fussing over his hair mid-movie, to which he playfully rolled his eyes, which earned him an equally playful smack on the shoulder._

_“I’m your mother, let me fuss.” And Patrick did. When the credits rolled, he felt her wrap her arms around his shoulders, pressing a kiss to the crown on his head. “No matter how old you get, you’re always going to be my baby.” Any other time he would have fought back, would made a sassy or sarcastic remark, but he didn’t. Instead, he melted into her embrace. “I’ll love you always, Patrick.”_

_“Love you, too Mom.”_

He doesn’t feel like he’s drowning instead that he’s trying to stay afloat, so he focused on another memory, this time of Pete. _They’re driving into Chicago, windows down and Green Day blasting through the stereo as they cruise comfortably down the highway. Pete’s talking animatedly about this pizza place about a mile or two away from the dorm, and how th manager of said place already knows him by name and phone number. Patrick’s laughing in the passenger seat._

_“Typical Wentz, leave it to you to make yourself known to be on first name basis with the pizza guy,” The teen smirked, resting his chin on his fist as he looked over at the older boy._

_“Dude! I have no shame when it’s damn good pizza! I also know the manager at the record store, I’m sure if I ask nicely, he’ll give me a discount.”_

_Patrick perked at that, his eyes lighting up at the comment. “Can we go? Mom gave me about forty bucks to spend! Do you know if they have any limited edition Bowie records?”_

_Pete chuckled as he smiled over at the teen, reaching over to knock over his cap and ruffle his hair. “I might have told Jack to hold on to a Blackstar Limited Edition vinyl for me last time we talked…”_

_“THE CLEAR ONE?! THOSE ARE ONLY SOLD IN THE UK!”_

_Pete shrugged before winking over at Patrick in the passenger seat who turned to fully face him, eyes wide and filled with awe. “I have my connections…”_

_The day trip to Chicago consist of Pete taking Patrick to his favorite pizza place, hanging out at the record store while Patrick searched through every bin with Pete by his side. And when it was all done, Patrick stared lovingly at his newly purchased Blackstar Limited Edition Clear Vinyl, at one point hugging it to his chest as he walked around the store, not that Pete said anything about it, instead when they walked out, Pete has his arm thrown around Patrick’s shoulder and they walked back to Pete’s beat up Corolla, the older boy grinning at him like he was the fucking sun._

Patrick never wanted to forget how it felt to be that close to Pete, to make him smile like that…

_“Be good for me?”_

The water’s weren’t rough anymore, the waves had died down and now, he could swim without the fear of drowning, images of Pete and him mom keeping him floating. The voice in his head is gone without a trace…at least for now…

Could he be good? He wanted to be, he didn’t want to hurt people any more, he didn’t want to hurt his mom any more.

He _wanted_ to be good. He wanted to get _better_.

At least for them.

“There you go Patrick, breathe in and out…” he hears Mark instruct even though his eyes were closed. He does as he’s told, in and out, in…and out…

“Very good, Patrick. I’m going to have you open your eyes slowly, and I want you to keep breathing.” The light filtering through the room are harsh and blinding when he does so, but he blinks out the discomfort and lets them adjust. Mark’s closer to him now, notepad forgotten on the desk, his hands covering his own.

“Now, we’re going to just try some grounding, at least until you feel a little more calm, are you okay with doing that?” he asks, his voice smooth and deep. Patrick only nods, not trusting himself to speak. “Alright, I want you to name things in the room, colors and objects, like the brown shelf, or the black pen. Take your time and let it come naturally, until you feel like you’re not floating away.”

It’s odd, and it sounds like it would be silly, but Patrick does it anyway, eyes gazing around the room, naming things as he went. “Brown desk…tan walls, dark blue sofa…red ball…umm…purple picture?”

Mark nodded, encouraging him to continue, so he did. He did so for about ten minutes for he felt _there_. He was in the room now, not lost in his mind. The medications still made him feel hazy, but he could physically feel the ground now…

He hadn’t been able to feel the ground since he was sedated, since Pete left…

“Better?” asked Mark, giving Patrick a small grin. The boy nodded, his features holding something akin to amazement. “What I asked you to do right now was a grounding technique, there are moments when you’re so consumed by your emotions you lose track of where you are, some people say it’s like your floating or fading away, but naming things in your surround helps with that sometimes, It helps you recognize your environment and keeps you present, you can do it with objects, colors, even smells and sounds. It’s a pretty cool technique if you ask me.”

“Yeah,” Patrick said slowly, still marveling at the absence of the serpent usually slithering in his mind, the manifestation that he’s grown used to.

“And what I had you do before is something we use in CBT. Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. The best way I can explain it is that we retrain your mind on how to think when you have depressive thoughts, in a way. Such as focusing on happy memories or a happy event, maybe even a favorite song. We, you and I, work together to get to the cause of these thoughts and practice finding positive ways to handle the negative emotions,” Mark smiled. “Much like how you did a while ago. Do you mind telling me what came to you?”

Patrick met his gaze before shifting his gaze back to his hands.

“For my mom,” he started quietly, hesitating for just a moment before feeling something open, like a levee or a flood gate. It felt like he was setting something _free_. “It was the last time she had a Saturday morning off and we just ate breakfast and watch Star Trek….”

The rest of the session continued on with Patrick describing his memories, revisiting them with a soft small, retelling them, uninterrupted, as Mark listened.

“Why do you think those were the memories that came to you?”

Patrick shrugged. “I’m not sure…I guess because that was the happiest I had been.”

Mark nodded. “Usually, in our session, we focus on more skill-based training, like coping skills, but if you want to, I want to try CBT in out sessions as well, every other session if it’s okay with you. How do you feel now?”

‘ _Like I can breathe, like I know I can smile or be happy about something and not feel guilty about it_ ,’ he almost says, but only nods before saying. “Better.”

“Good,” Mark nods with a grin. “Would you want to continue to try CBT? All I ask is for three sessions to see how you like it. It’s not a quick fix-it treatment, but it takes some time, and there will be setbacks too, but that’s okay. We’ll overcome those together.”

Patrick nodded quickly. “Awesome, you did really good today, Patrick. You should be proud of yourself. I’ll see you tomorrow, same time. I’ll also see of Dr. Lavigne could see you about your meds, and please be honest with her about how you feel so we can help you get the dosages right.” Patrick gives him another nod before exiting the room, and for a moment, everything looks brighter, something feels lighter.

He knows it won’t last long, he knows the thoughts in his mind are just waiting to come back and suffocate him in venom laced words, but for now, he’ll keep them away with thoughts of peanut-butter pancakes and record stores trips.

He wants to be good, for Pete, for his mom.

Only now, he feels like he might actually be able to _try_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY ABOUT THE UPDATE DELAY, at least it wasn't 6 months like my other ones, so that's a good thing! I should be studying for my certification exam, but...I'm writing fanfic instead.
> 
> Anyways, it's already going to be a year since I first published this fic and it just blows my mind with how many of you all actually read this, so thank you from the bottom of my heart. It'd going to get a little better from here on own, just a few speed bumps here and there. 
> 
> And as always, you can find me on [Tumblr](http://shatteredmirrors-and-lace23.tumblr.com/). Comments, constructive criticism, kudos, and feedback are always welcomed.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and more importantly, for sticking with these fics, it still amazes me that people actually read these rambling. Love you all to pieces!
> 
> -Xoxo


	9. Sometimes We Take Chances, Sometimes We Take Pills

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um....I'm not dead?? And yeah, finally a freakin update....yay!!!

The next few days after his initial CBT session with Hoppus goes well for the most part. He’s spending more time with Tyler, who’s been hanging in close and keeping a watchful eye over him, along with Gerard, he begins to notice. The girls, Halsey and Lynn, also seem to keep him close, linking their arms with his as they walk into the sunroom for a movie later on that evening after CBT, and the following day for game night on Wednesday. On both nights he and Tyler retire to their room, falling back into a soft, easy conversation they had initially begun before Patrick’s Observation and into a familiar bedtime routine. Nurse Hayley comes in with her cart, scans their bracelets, hands out meds, changes Patrick’s bandages, and wishes them goodnight.

“I’m glad you’re back,” Tyler whispers into the empty room that first night. “It was weird not having you here.”

 _‘Lies, useless lies, he didn’t care that you weren’t here,_ ’ a familiar voice echos from the recesses of his mind. _‘Useless, that’s what you are. They should have kept you in there.’_

“I’m sorry,” he tries to apologize, but Tyler just takes his head and smiles.

“No, don’t be sorry. I mean, I really wasn’t _here_ for when you were gone, I’m just glad you’re doing better.”

 _‘He wishes you never came back, filthy liar, he wishes you were gone.’_ Patrick pushes the voice away, feeling stronger after his session with Hoppus, but the venom lingering in his mind is still, still lurking in the darkness waiting to strike at a moment’s notice.

_‘You have the glass, finish the job. You’ll do everyone a favor, you worthless little runt’._

‘No, stop it. I’m going to be good….I promised…’

_‘You didn’t promise that fool anything...'_

“Patrick?” He snaps out of his thoughts, worried brown eyes looking over at him from his spot on the bed, a curious tingle to mocha hues with a slight tilt of his head, making Tyler look younger than he was. “Are….are you okay?”

Patrick simply nods, staying silent, quiet, as he buries himself under the covers, the smell of the laundry soap reminding him of home. It reminds him that somehow, after all that he’s done, the pain he had inflicted, he was still loved enough to have something brought from his room to provide him with some sort of comfort.

 _‘Only because she had too, you’re still a burden…Worthless, weak, couldn’t even kill yourself right, now you’re here…_ ’

“If you don’t want to talk about it,” Tyler continues, soft, yet clear over the creature terrorizing his mind, unable to see the storm brewing in Patrick’s mind as he settles into his own bed. “That’s okay, just know that I’m really glad you’re back. We all are.”

 _‘Lies, lies, lies,’_ the snake laughs, glowing green eyes and viscous venom dripping from its fangs, mocking him with glee as Tyler’s breathing evens out as he drifts into sleep. ‘Happy thoughts, happy thoughts’ Patrick finds himself thinking, trying to think back to his memories of his car ride with Pete, of pancakes with peanut butter and Star Trek, but feels the venom seeping in closer, spreading like wildfire in his mind as the snake attempts to strike and taint the memories he had talked about in session, his vestiges of happiness, of his mom, of Pete…. _no_ , he wasn’t going to let it ruin those, _no_ …not again.

He thinks of Pete’s smile as they fly down the highway, of his mother’s warm embrace and gentle kisses. He thinks of music and an endless sea of records, and the creaky old flooring of the record store Pete had taken him too, he thinks of the sun, of Green Day, of Saturday Mornings….he thinks about happiness…

He can feel the warmth of an arm around his shoulder, of smiling and laughter, of peace...and the snake, the serpentine terror, vanishes into the darkness of his mind.

At least now he can sleep.

Come Thursday, he does as Hoppus suggests, and talks truthfully to Dr. Lavigne about how he’s feeling on the medication at their 3 day follow up after his Observation. He tells her about the haze that seems to linger in his vision, the heavy blanket that feels wrapped around his body, holding him down, dragging him, yet making him feel like he’s about to float away at any moment. She nods with a small smile and types out something in her computer, the sound of her nails clacking against the keyboard as she types oddly relaxing.

“I’m going to make a small change to your Fluoxetine by lowering the dosage, that’s you’re antidepressant medication,” she states, her voice soft and kind. “I’ll keep your Diazepam the same since it’s the smallest dosage, but I want to keep an eye on that too. I want to keep that one at night for now. I normally don’t make these changes until after three weeks of monitoring, as takes about 21 days for the body to regulate the medication, but I’ll make the exception this one time. Just give it some time for it to take affect. Medication can be tricky but if you keep open and honest communication with us we can get figure out what works best for you.” She went on to explain that if she doesn’t see an improvement in the next few weeks, she may have to change his medications in order to find “the right mix that will work.”  

She smiles as she reads something in Patrick’s chart on her computer. “You’re giving CBT a chance with Mark? That’s fantastic Patrick,” her kohl lined eyes flash over to his, “How about I’ll make some adjustments to your treatment plan after those initial three sessions. Is that okay with you?”

Patrick only nods softly as he fiddles with the cuff of the sleeve of his hoodie. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

She continues, her eyes squinting slightly at the screen before her, “I glanced at one of your progress notes in your chart and read that you and Mark you did a grounding activity, as well as tapped into some Cognitive Restructuring, which is when you try to rewire the way you think when faced with a negative situation.” It sounds like a whole jumble of words that Patrick isn’t quite sure he understands, but when she turns back him, she give her another small smile. “You did good,” she praised softly. “Can you tell me what happened during your last session with Mark?”

He thinks about telling her no, but can’t find it in himself to do so, instead just shrugs as he recalls the events from Tuesday’s session with Mark. “I guess I was having some sort of panic attack,” he explains quietly, not meeting her eyes, even as Dr. Lavigne turned to focus her attention completely on him. “The voices were getting too loud and I couldn’t think, but Mark was able to get me out of it and use happy thoughts, well, _memories_ that made me happy, and that made the voices stop,” Patrick’s fingers rub at the smudge of black on the slender wooden arm of his chair as he talks, avoiding the woman’s eyes. “Then we did this thing where I named things in the room and that helped. I didn’t feel like I was about to float away anymore.”

Dr. Lavigne nodded, scribbling something down on her ever-present legal pad. “That’s good progress, Patrick. You should be proud of yourself,” she praised softly, “You mentioned something about the voices, when you were explaining your session with Mark,” her voice was calm and unflinching, but Patrick could feel the beginnings of fear gnawing at his gut, crawling slowly up his chest and into his throat. Had he said the wrong thing? Why did he mention the voices? “Can you tell me a little bit about the voices Patrick?”

Cold panic ran through his veins like ice, freezing him, turning him into cold, crystal glass, fragile and ready to shatter at a moment’s notice. “They….they…” He stumbled, eyes wide with fear as his hands begin to tremble. He and Tyler have talked about this before he was sent to Observation, about the voices, the thoughts that run through his head, and the danger that might come if he were to freely disclose that information. He didn’t want to end up alone again, he didn’t want to go back to the room, isolated from the people he had grown accustomed to--to Gerard, Mikey, Frank, Tyler, Brendon, Lynn and Halsey, the familiar 3 pm free time when they all gathered in the sunroom, he had just gotten it back a few days ago, he didn’t want to lose it all over again.

There’s a lead weight on his chest, panic, horror, fear, no, no _, no,_ he doesn’t want to go back, he _doesn’t_ . His heart is becoming erratic just at the thought of going back, and he feels himself hyperventilating, trying not make it seem like he’s not fighting for every breath that graces his lungs, the sweet oxygen that’s supposed to help keep him calm and his mind clear.

But it’s not working.

“Patrick, tell me what’s in the room, remember where you are,” comes Dr Lavigne's voice through the darkness, since when did he close his eyes? “You’re safe, Patrick, nothing’s going to happen to you.” His eyes snap open and he feels them already burn and sting with unshed tears laced with fear, and he’s frantically looking around the room. “Tell me what you see in the room Patrick, and take deep breaths every time,” Dr. Lavigne repeats just as calmly, if not just a hair softer.

Patrick’s eye dart around the room as he tries to focus on something other than the paralyzing fear that he just talked about the voices and how that might have just sealed his fate. ‘ _They’re going to keep you here forever, you’re just another lunatic that they have to deal with. You’re_ _nothing_.’

“Picture frames,” Patrick gasps out trying to drown out the serpentine voice that slithers within the recesses of his mind. “Silver-grey laptop, blue rug,” his eyes move across the room, finding objects on her desk that he begins to name. “Pink stress all, blue pens, red pens, black pens, yellow paper, blue folders, black stapler.” As he begins to rattle off objects the voice begins to dwindle, fading into darkness.  He scans the room again, this time focusing on the ground and himself. “Grey carpet, black and white checkers, dark blue jeans….”

“Good job Patrick,” the doctor smiles, leaning back in her chair, giving him a kind smile. “How are you feeling now?”

Patrick looks at her with weary, exhausted eyes. He so tired. Tired of fighting off the sperant with venom dripping from it’s fangs, whispering toxic nothings in his ear, tired of fighting back, he just….he just….

His mind takes him back to the faint and blurred memory of his mother’s cry as the door to his bedroom was thrown open, wood cracking, his mom’s blood curling scream and her hands on his forearm, trying to stop the bleeding. He thinks of waking up in a cold hospital bed, his mother sobbing as she held him close, afraid that at any moment, he’ll vanish into thin air forever. 

He thinks of Pete, of memories in the sun, in the car, in a record shop, of childhood memories and summers of endless friendship...Patrick thinks about waking up from his nightmare in Observation and Pete being there, comforting him, holding him… _’_ _“It’s okay…I got you…I’m not letting you go, not any more…I’m here now Trick.”_ And Patrick actually felt the beginnings of something, a small ember of hope that he had thought was snuffed out when he took the razor to his wrist, when he woke up aching in a hospital bed, but Pete and his mom...

_“I’ll see you soon, okay? Be good for me?”_

‘Be good? I-I think I can do that….I got to….for Mom...for Pete...’

He looks back up at the psychiatrist, feeling his body continue to shake, making sure the oxygen gets into his lungs with slow but shutter breathes...He can do this, he has to….“I-I’m not going to lie,” he starts, his voice low, a tremble hidden just under the surface. “I’m still nervous…but I’m not freaking out as much,” he responds truthfully, there’s no point in hiding, he’s already gave the psychiatrist sneak a peek into his head, and besides, he _likes_ Dr. Lavigne , she’s quiet and calm and warm and reminds him a lot of his sister.” _Be good for me?”_ He’s going to try.

“Can you tell me why you’re nervous?”

“I…umm…” He glances back at her, and then back to the checkered Vans he’s been allowed to wear since the beginning of his stay because they don’t have laces. “I’m scared about going back to Observation,” he admitted truthfully. “I don’t want to go back, I just got out, and I-I-I’m not _crazy_ , I _swear_ I’m _n-not_ .” His voice sounds small, even to his own ears.

“Patrick, no one is going to put you in Observation unless you’re a danger to yourself or others,” she tries to pacify.

“But if I tell you about the voices…”

“That’s just additional information we need to know to better help your treatment,” she explains calmly. “It’s perfectly normal to hear our own thoughts in our own head Patrick, it’s part of our consciousness, and often times it takes on the voice of someone close to us or our own voice.” She leans forward in her chair, black nails contrasting against the pink barrel of the pen in her hand. “Right now, I don’t see you as a danger to yourself, if anything, we would consider this your baseline behavior, does that make sense?” Patrick shakes his head slowly, eyes falling into his lap and filled with shame and embarrassment, but Dr. Lavigne continued on, her voice soothing and calm, reminding him of ocean waves crashing gently on a shore. “Baseline behavior is behavior that is normal for you to experience at this time, whether it be daily depressive thoughts, thoughts of self-harm, low-self esteem, paranoia, even hearing things. None of this means you’re crazy, Patrick, we just want to help you manage these symptoms as best as you can so that you can do it on your own in the long run.”

It kind of makes sense, Patrick thinks to himself as plays with the hem of his hoodie. There’s another beat of silence, and he’s glad Dr. Lavigne doesn’t try to fill it, instead, lets it settle and set in the room. Patrick’s not used to silence, but he’s getting that’s how Dr. Lavigne is giving him his space to process everything.

“The-the voices…they keep telling me that I’m worthless,” he whispers. “They keep telling me that I should have done a better job at cutting.”

“Do you believe them?”

“I try to ignore them, but sometimes…it’s hard…”

Dr. Lavigne next question comes easily. “Have the voices ever told  you to hurt yourself or others, Patrick?”

Patrick shrugs. “Not-not others, just tells me to hurt myself, that I don’t deserve anything…”

“Do you feel like hurting yourself now?”

He thinks about it for a moment. Three weeks ago, he would have replied yes, that the voices were getting too loud and the everything was too much, too much for him to bear, too much for him to handle, and all he wanted was some peace, some quiet, _something_ . The voice is still there, and he has the means stashed away in a soft white pillow in is room for safe keeping, but….“No, no I don’t,” he replies truthfully but the slithering hiss in his head only laughs _. ‘You should’._

“That’s good, Patrick. I just want you to know that the only time I’ll have to suggest Observation would be in the event that you do feel the need to do hurt yourself, or if you don’t feel safe at all.

We want Observation to be a last resort, the skills that you learn with Mark, I want you to start utilizing those whenever you hear those voices or when things get too much, just like you did today.” Yeah, he could do that, he doesn’t want to go back, he wants to stay where he can roam freely, eat lunch with Gerard and Tyler and Halsey, watch movies and play board games in the Sunroom.

“Patrick, thank you for telling me about the voices, I know it must have been terrifying for you, but this helps us a lot,” Dr. Lavigne says softly, a small but genuine smile on her lips. “I want you to work on Cognitive Restructuring with Mark in CBT, if you want to continue after those initial three sessions, as well as learning more Grounding and Distraction Type Coping Skills.” Patrick nod in understanding. “I’m also going to recommend that you attend Group on Mondays and Fridays, as well start School Modules everyday, just to keep you up to date with school work, along with usual sessions, and med management with me.”

Patrick looks up, confusion and uncertainty coloring his eyes as he looks at the psychiatrist. It’s more than what he’s used to, he hasn’t been assigned to group, but knows that Tyler and Brendon go every Monday and Friday, on top of that meeting with Hoppus two days out of the week for CBT, two times for skills session, and once a week for Med Management with Dr. Lavigne…. _plus school_ ?  “That sounds like it’s gonna be a lot,” Patrick mumbles, ducking his head further into his hoodie, fingers still working on the worn hem of it.

Dr. Lavigne only smiles and lets out a small giggle. “That, my dear Patrick, is the point,” she takes a sip of her coffee that Patrick didn’t even realize was there. “We have to keep you busy, that’s part of Distraction.”

Patrick looks up at her after a moment, and couldn’t stop the small smile that came onto his face. Maybe…maybe she was on to something…

… **.**

During CBT the next day, Patrick has to admit that it didn’t hurt as much as he thought it would. Hoppus had him fill out a sheet, and the simple activity of filling out a worksheet gave him confidence, in a way. “We’re going to do two of these today,” the older man explained as he got out of his desk and made his way over his bookshelf, a thoughtful expression as he picks out a black and blue pencil box filled with markers before making his way over to sit on the arm chair next to Patrick. He hands a clipboard over to Patrick, nervousness prickling at his insides, an anxious frost running through his veins, which slowly melts as he glances over at the page. _“When I felt ______, I DID:”_ followed by a bubble underneath with lines, and then the lower half of the sheet read _“ When I felt ____ ,I SAID:”_ and then another bubble. “So we’re going to focus on two emotions today, this is kinda like a self-reflection, activity,” he explains with a grin, taking out his phone and typing away at something on the screen before the gentle sounds of guitar come through the speakers. “Cool, figured some background noise would help a bit…Anyways, there’s no right or wrong answer, and if you don’t want to write, you can draw, rap, sing, make smoke signals, whatever.” Patrick feels a gentle pull at the corner of his lips at the image before he looks back down at the clipboard.

He stares at the blank of the page before gently asking, “I pick the feeling?”

Mark smiled and nodded, plucking a marker from the box, Patrick doing the same, eyes drawn to the bright orange in the box. “Yup, Let’s start off with something positive, it could be happy, content, peaceful, any variation, so long as it’s a good feeling.”

Patrick nodded and started writing.

By the end of session, Patrick looked at both papers, _‘Happy’_ and ‘ _Hopeless’_ written on each in his messy scrawl.

“I see you wrote a lot of positives about music”, Mark commented, glancing at his paper with a satisfied nod.

“Yeah, I like music,” Patrick thinks back to playing his guitar, working on GarageBand. He thinks about going to record shops with Pete, singing along to The Used, Saves the Day, Prince, Green Day in his beat up Corolla, Pete smiling as he glanced his way, mouthing along to the lyrics…

“That’s great, I think that’s going to be something we can definitely incorporate in the new few sessions,” he hears Mark comment, a pleasant hum in his voice as he moves back to his desk. “What do you think, Patrick?”

Something in Patrick’s eyes shift, a sort of soft veil falling free from his psyche, bringing some semblance of light back into his life, making him feel just a little more lighter and a more present. Something clicks just at the thought of music and the memories it brings him, of his dad teaching him how to play guitar, of going to one of Pete’s shows when he would scream for Arma Angelus during his freshman year of college…music… _music_ was always a gateway to happiness, a yellow-bricked road that twisted and turned, but Pete was always there to guide him, to encourage him. _‘If anyone could be the next world producer Pattycakes, it’s gonna be you, you’re a fucking genius.’_ Music and Pete, music and his family….

“Yeah, I think…I think that would be cool.”

And Patrick feels that he might just believe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh gosh.... I know this has been forever and a day, but it's here! A million thank you to the best cheerleader and Beta in the whole world, [Flame_and_Jade](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Flames_and_Jade/pseuds/Flames_and_Jade) , I probably would be posting anything without her constant support and general awesomeness, love you dearest!
> 
> I'm going to try and update this one before the end of the year instead of making you ll wait 8 month like this time...yikes, and I'm so incredibly sorry about that, my only excuse is that adulting sucks, but I'm on a two week vacation and updates are actually getting written, which is yay!!
> 
> Comments and kudos are always welcomed, but above all, thank you for taking the time to read this
> 
> Feel free to hit me up [Tumblr](http://shatteredmirrors-and-lace23.tumblr.com/) for more things coming soon. 
> 
> Thank you, loves! <3


	10. I'm a Stitch Away (from Making it or Falling Apart)

Saturday rolls in before Patrick knows it.

Visitation Day.

He feels a pull as he walks alone down the hallway leading to the sunroom after breakfast, a tug of nervousness that guides his mind into shadowy corners of his psyche, where memories of  this time last week play in an seemingly never ending loop, the walls he but up, the panic that came when he felt them start to crumble under the weight of emotions he refused to want to feel and thought he could not feel anymore, not after everything…. the shouting, the tears and trembles he couldn’t stop, the hands on his arms, the sharp bite of a needle in his arm, and then the hazy blanket of nothingness, his body feeling numb, a dead weight being lowered into a chair, his mind a muffled. Each step down the hall takes him back deeper, he think of waking up, his body and mind filled and fluffed with cotton, but… Pete was there, as if waiting for a needle and thread to help stitch tear he had made. He thinks of Pete’s whispered promise to visit him as he hugged him in Observation, something akin to hope blooming in his chest, tinged with dread as he readies himself to possibly see Pete again.

Did he want to see Pete again? Are things going to be different when he comes this time…

 _‘If he shows_ ,’ the ever present whisper in his subconscious, a venom-laced thought sings into is ear with artificial sweetness as he reaches the Sunroom,  Tyler and the Way Brothers smiling over his way, the youngest of the group waving enthusiastically over at Patrick. “ _All he does is lie lie lie…he won’t come, he doesn’t care. He’s a liar liar lair ”_ Patrick closes his eyes and breathes deeply, but is startled back to reality when Mikey throws a ridiculously lanky arm over his shoulder, providing a much needed distraction.

“Game of _‘_ Spot Itfor your thoughts?” he asks in his usual tone, bland, usually colorless, but today there’s a smidgen of yellow coloring his voice, a pastel yellow that’s bright and seemingly in a happy mood, something he usually reserves for his brother or Frank, and now Patrick. He must know or at least seen that he was lost in his mind, if even for a second.

The cinnamon-blond haired boy smiles weakly, a small upward tug of his lips, as Tyler laughs and Gerard lets out a groan from his other side. “Goddamnit Mikes, you and fucking Spot It…”

“Dude I’m the fucking ‘ _Spot It_ ’ pro, and besides, Patrick’s hasn’t played with us yet,” Mikey says with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders, “I have a feeling Patrick might be able to dethrone me once he gets some practice in.”

“I highly doubt it,” Patrick laughs softly. Laughing feels almost foreign, almost as if he’s committing an ultimate sin, after all, the doctors tell him he’s depressed, which is why he’s here. He’s cheated death, almost succumbed to his demons, the marks on his arm and thighs, his battle scars, the proof of the war he’s been secretly fighting in his mind under ever the most loving and watchful eyes.

And yet...why does he feel guilty for laughing?  

Something mentally tugs at his subconscious, a gentle reminder that he hasn’t really laughed in a while, hasn’t really been around people who he somewhat considers his friends until he came into this plush, gilded cage of a psychiatric prison, their little band of outsiders are fighting a similar battle but with their own demons, some winning, others losing, some, like Patrick, tied in a deadlock. They’re strangers that are slowly becoming comrades, brothers and sisters in arms, their own band of fighters that he somehow managed to fit into in the few weeks he’s been in Rogers. He wouldn’t be lying if he said it feels good to be a part of their little group to feel that he just _might_ belong. “’No thanks. I’ve seen you guys play, you all get way too into it,” Patrick says easily as as he plays with the cuffs of his hoodie.

“We should so play tonight after dinner!” Tyler starts, a competitive grin gracing his face, “That or we can play Ultimate Pictionary!” Before anyone could say anything in response, Tyler’s eyes suddenly light up with glee as his name rings through the Sunroom, head turning impossibly fast towards Nurse Benji.  With a grin and a happy little sigh, he quickly mutters a rushed “See you guys!” before he practically ran over to a familiar sight on the weekends, a boy with faded cotton candy pink dyed hair sticking out from under his cap and wide smile. While Josh was a familiar face to Patrick at this point, what seems out of place is the person who is with him, an older man, whom Patrick is 90% sure is Josh’s dad, the one Tyler would talk about from time to time.

“Ahh,” Gerard sighs dramatically, “Young love.” Mikey pretends to gag before getting smacked by his older brother, “Oh hush, be nice to the love birds.”

“They’re…” the blonde starts, causing the brothers to look over at him with raised brows, “They’re really happy, aren’t they?” Patrick says more to himself as he watches Tyler and Josh hands slip easily into each other, fingers lacing and locking with a familiarity that lovers could have as they disappear along with the older man to one of the visitation areas.

“Disgustingly so, almost as much as Gee and Frank but that’s because they keep it tame when they’re in public,” Mikey says easily as he dodges another smack from his blushing brother. “Anyways, it’s good to see him happy though, he’s been doing a lot better than when we first got here”. Gee nods in agreement, before Patrick cuts him off with a curious look as something clicks at Mikey’s words.

“Wait…you and Frank?”

Gee freezes, eyes wide, before he stammers out a “N-n-no!,” while Mikey monotonously answers with a “Yep” of his own, popping the ‘p’ loudly.

Gerard is quick to change the subject, turning to Patrick as he runs a hand through fire-truck red hair, the black already beginning to show at the roots with a simple pass of his hand. Patrick can’t help but wonder how he keeps it so vibrant while in Rogers. “Are you getting visitors today?”

Patrick’s pulled out of his thoughts, and only shrugs as he buries his hands into his front pocket of his hoodie. “I’m not sure,” Patrick starts as they walk around the room, Patrick ever amazed as the amount of unfamiliar faces of other patients that he really never seen before. “Pete…,” he swallows a bit, trying to push down the jittering ball of emotions, a terrifying mix of fear, hope, and excitement whirling madly in his stomach. “Pete said he was going to come, that’s what he told me when I was in Observation.”

He watches as Mikey and Gerard share a look, words being said between them while not be spoken, and Patrick feels so incredibly lost in translation. “What?” he asks softly, panic rising as he looked between the two.

Gerard was quick to answer, a hand raised slightly as if to quell the growing anxiety he could clearly see building in the younger boy’s eyes. “Nothing, nothing,” he smoothes softly, his voice low and melodic. “It’s just…you know you have the right not see anyone if you don’t want to or if you don’t feel comfortable,” Gerard explains, as they settle on one of the empty sofas in a corner of the room, his voice slow and tentative, careful with his words as if he was walking on the thin ice of Patrick’s psyche and taking caution in his words as if to not crack it under the weight of his words. “Although we might here against our will or because we have to, we still have some rights. That usually includes who we get to see,” he explained easily. “If someone comes and you don’t want to see them, you can always say no.”

Patrick’s looking down at his hands, fingers continuing to fiddle with the frayed part of his cuffs, before he turns his gaze to look at Gee. When he does, he’s greeted with soft concern and surprising warmth in his brown eyes, something that reminds him of the look his sister gave him after he woke up in the hospital, their hands linked over the scratchy, thin blanket as the doctor first explained his need long-term treatment. It was something kind and familiar, caring even, which makes him consider the words he just said, ‘ _You can always say no_ …’

It takes a split moment for Patrick to understand, for the pieces to click into place, but when it does, it all makes sense, everything coming into focus. He’s referring to Pete. Memories of last Saturday’s incident came back to him, the argument he and Pete had had before everything felt like it was too much to handle, the yelling, hands on his wrist, a needle pressing into his veins, and the unsettling feeling of the sedation kicking in, feeling trapped underwater…Gee looking…nervous

Besides him, he feels Mikey nod in agreement, and looking up at the taller, but younger Way brother, the same look of quiet apprehension in his smile. Then, a realization hits him, a bolt of lightning striking from the sky, right into his heart, a burst of light making things in the room clearer, brighter— They were worried about him _, for_ him…

It’s…it’s weird, having someone give of some semblance of concern for him that wasn’t his mom, or even Pete. “ _He’s never cared, none of them care about you, it’s a show, it’s fake, NO ONE CARES…”_ , the voice hisses, louder and louder until Patrick shoves aside, tossing it back into the shadowy crevasse of his mind with a strength he never knew he could have, if it just appeared for a second.

He’s tired of giving in, tired of being alone, and right now, he’s not alone, he’s got people watching out for him, at least he hopes so…He thinks...

Patrick looks over at both Way brothers before nodding and giving a soft smile. “Thank you for telling me, but I…I think I’ll be ready this time, and hopefully not have a freak out.” Gerard and Mikey smile at him, Mikey’s lanky arm squeezing his shoulders in a somewhat awkward side hug, before he hears a familiar voice coming closer to them

“Hey Chicken Nuggets! I came to kidnap Patrick,” greets Nurse Hayley in neon purple scrubs, a grin on her face, her orange flamed hair pulled into a messy bun, “You’re parents came to visit, hon!”

There’s a sudden burst with comfort and joy at the announcement, along with a slightly sinking rock settling in the pit of his stomach, disappointment maybe? If his parents were here, then maybe they heard about the incident from last week, maybe they forbade Pete from seeing him after his crisis, or banned him from ever being in their son’s life again. He hopes his parents were not so cruel to do such a thing but after last week....

“See,” Jabs Gerard at his side, as he motions to the doorway. “Someone did come. So go! Spend some time with your folks, we’ll see you later.”

Patrick gives them both a nod and a small, silent smile as a ‘thank you’, before making his way over to the flame-haired nurse as she leads him to his parents. He follows Hayley  through a somewhat familiar maze of hallways until he’s greeted by the sight of his parents, waiting patiently in one of the many waiting areas, a rather large bag at his mother’s feet, while his father talks to her softly to her. From where he’s standing, his mother still looks exhausted, her features still worn and looking slightly older than she actually was, but he could see that there  was a improvement from the last time she was here, she looks a bit better; there’s color in her cheeks and a light in her eyes, and she smiling over at her ex-husband as he speaks. Patrick hopes she’s getting more sleep. However, the fact that his dad was here and they were _talking_ , makes him feels weakly elated. It wasn’t that his parents hated each other, but they just never talked as they used to, they were cordal towards each other yes, but seeing them in a full on conversation, his father’s hand on her knee, her hand resting over his, and it feels like a old childhood wish is finally coming true, but there’s a dark cloud of guilt that washes over him, a realization that it took going through a suicide attempt and a hospitalized them to be together like the ultimate cost of his childhood wish was breakdown of his mental stability...the price of happiness was a steep, Patrick’s starting to realize that in some ways….

He’s brought back to his senses when he hears his mother gleefully call out, “Ricky!” Her eyes glowing brilliantly like starts in a pitch black sky when she sees him, rushing over to gather him up in her arms. He’s used to his mother’s hugs, but what surprised him was the firm pat of a warm hand on his shoulder. He looks up to see his father smiling, and something in his heart pangs just at the thought of the sign of physical affection from a man who was not known to give much when he was younger.

Before he could utter a single word, his mother starts bombarding him with questions, her hands and eyes looking over him with a mother’s careful gaze. His dad chuckles good-heartedly before wrapping a firm hand around his ex-wife’s shoulder. “Why don’t we go find a place to sit and give the staff the stuff we brought him to inspect before you start interrogating the boy, Trisha.”

His mother breaks away from his side with a slight flushed smile, bringing the bag over to a patiently waiting Nurse Hayley as the four were navigated through the maze of hallways into one of the open visitation rooms. “I brought you some fresh blankets and clean clothes,” she started as they walked through the doorway and found a table to sit at by one of the large windows.“I know they do laundry here, but I figured it’s not the same, and I brought another one of your hoodies, so you can have a backup. I’m guessing you’ve been wearing the same one day and night, and while you might not be living in the house right now, you need to change it up, son, you can’t be living in that thing 24/7.”

“ _Mooom_ ,” Patrick groans, ears turning embarrassingly pink as he buries his head into his folded arms. While he huffs, he can’t help but smile, he misses his and his mom’s little banters. Whether it be about his hat or his ever present hoodie that he seemed to never want to take off even while he was at school, his mother would make a comment without fail, gently chiding him with no true heat in her voice. _“I get you all these nice shirts, yet you wear the same damn jacket all year round. I swear once school is over, I’m going to have a bonfire outside with the darn thing…”_

It’s weird how much he misses the normalcy, but it’s nice to have some of it back, even if it’s just for a moment.

“Patricia, give the kid a break,” his father laughs, which his mom returns with a melodic one of her own. Patrick peeks up from his folded arms with a small smile at the sound of her laugh, the flush still staining his cheeks. He rights himself before taking a quick glance around, he watches Tyler and Josh huddle close on one of the sofa’s on the other side, the older man from before nowhere insight, watching something on his phone, while Halsey disappeared to another room with her mom. There are a few other kids Patrick sees, but doesn’t recognize, he’s only familiar with Tyler’s little group, which has very much become his own, his circle of misfits, survivors as Lynn called them once. Patrick has always doubted it a bit, but something inside of him is beginning to like the idea…

It’s not awkward, much like Patrick believed it would be, seeing his parents like this. Having them there feels safe and warm, like he’s wrapped the soft fleece blanket he would bring out whenever the temperature would dip into freezing at night, it reminds him of being home, except he's not, he’s three weeks into a four-month stay. It’s a bittersweet fact, a painful reminder in his chest that he’s not going to get to go home yet, but part of him feels safe here, he’s been feeling better since his first CBT session with Mark, the thoughts are still there, the scars still taunt him every time Hayley comes to change his bandages, and the thoughts in his head still hiss saccharine  sweet doubts and poisonous taunts in his ear, reminding him of the shard tucked neatly away in his pillow, of his failed attempts. ‘ _You should have tried harder_ ,’ it hisses, as he looks up at his mom, who’s smiling at him, dark circles clear under her eyes. He wonders if she had nightmares, if she still sees him bleeding out on his bedroom floor, hooked up to blood bags and wires in a hospital bed, gauze hiding the stitches that sewed him up …. _“You should do everyone a favor a stick that glass into your wrist the next chance you get…”_

“How have things being going, Ricky?” she asks, completely oblivious to the swirling thoughts in his head, the raging dark waters that come and go like tides, at their highest points, they can drown him, they can sway him off his balance and drag him back to sea, pulling him under with every kick, but, like this week, they’re mild, nothing small waves lapping at his feet, they can’t pull him not, not this time, and he’s starting to think the medications might be playing some role with that. “It’s getting there,” he says softly, his hand in both of his mother’s, holding on, reminding him of the first time he stepped foot into Roger’s Behavioral Hospital, into the director’s office, except this time, his mom wasn’t grasping on to him like he was about to vanish into thin air, about to fall apart at the seams if she had even loosened her grip, instead, this one is comforting and warm. She looks happy, Patrick notices, although he could still see the faint traces of fear in them, of worry engraved into her own brown eyes. His heart clenches to think he put that there. “I’ve been talking more, so it’s getting better.”

His mother’s smile and his father’s nod is all the reassurance he needs. They talk to clear the air, Patrick’s quiet attentive as his mom fills him in on all the gossip he’s missed back at home, which honestly wasn’t much other than the neighbor’s cat getting loose. “Anyways, they were telling us while we were waiting for you that they’re going to put you in the Academic program here, so that you can still be caught up with your grades.”

Patrick nods, recalling the conversation he had with Mark during his last session, along with his talk with Dr. Lavigne at his Psych/Med Visit as he’s heard some of the kids call them. “Yeah, it’s a module program,” he starts, smiling slightly. “So it’s at my own pace, and plus it’s gonna keep me busy.”

As he finishes, something dawns at his mother’s words, a sharp pull at his thoughts along with an echoing menacing laugh that rings from the shadowy corner of his mind, mocking him ‘ _they know they know they know_ …’ it sing-songs from the pitch black depths of his psyche, causing an icy chill of realization to run through his veins. If they has told his mom about school, about some of his sessions…does that mean…

Patrick’s heart races, blood roaring in his ears, his voice trembling as he asks,“What else did they tell you?”

Time suddenly comes to a stand still when he sees his mom’s face drops, her eyes widening slightly at what he seemed to be asking. She seems at a lost for words, quiet and silent as she holds his hands in his. It’s his confirmation, the truth in the reality. They know. _She knows._ The silence that comes over them is deafening, Patrick’s own panicked heart nearly beating out of his chest just at the thought of his mother knowing that transpired last week, the numbing inducing chill filling his body as the doubt in his head, serpentine and deadly, slithers it’s way back from the crevasse in his mind, its voice taunting and giddy with vengeance, laughing at him. _“She knows, she knows, she knows how pathetic you are, how stupid and worthless you are. She can’t handle a crazy son. She doesn’t want you. No one wants you. That’s why you’re here. She’ll never love you again, you’re crazy, worthless, pathetic, crazy CRAZY-!!!”_

“They told me about what happened last week,” she said with a soft sigh, her voice cutting through the hurricane of thoughts, the storm brewing in his mind. Her eyes not meeting his at first, however she looks up at him with a look that makes Patrick want to crumble and melt into her chest as the tears fall from his eyes. But he holds them back, he has too, he doesn’t want to make another scene…not again, not after last week. He can’t go through that _again_ -

 _“They don’t want you, she doesn’t love you, no one loves you, you’re better off dead!”_ the voice in his head screeches, causing Patrick to screw his eyes shut. _Shut up...that’s not true_ , he tries to fight back weakly, trying to call back on his strength from earlier, he just can’t seem too..

“Rick…Patrick…Son, look at me,” he’s brought back from the depths of his mind, back to the present, back to the room and the window and his parents sitting with him, his mother somehow moved to sit beside him without him noticing. “Focus on me, Rick. You’re okay, you’re here,” she tries to sooth gently, a hand coming up to run fingers through his hair in a soothing motion. It strangely keeps him grounded somehow, the words in his head becoming muffled with every stroke. “You’re okay, son. I’m not mad, sweetie, if that’s what you’re worried about, I love you.” she soothes gently, her fingers coming to wipe at the tears he didn’t realized had fallen from his eyes. “I’m not mad at all. What happened isn’t going to change anything, I’m just glad you’re okay…”

“But…but I…” he struggles to stay, words failing him as his body begins to shake slightly with the fear, fear of the doubts that yell violently in his head, fear that his mom knew about the sedation, about Observation, and about the fact that Pete had some part in it… He didn’t want to be isolated again, he didn’t want to lose the chance at seeing Pete again, not when he promised…. _he promised_.

“Shh,” she soothes, wrapping her arms around him, anchoring him. “You’re okay Ricky, nothing bad is going to happen, I swear, but you have to relax a little for me,” she attempts to calm, her voice a soft a fresh linens and smooth and warmed honey; it reminds him so much of home, of lazy Saturday morning, or making cookies together, laughing over movies and silly shows, of warm hugs, and her voice lulling him to sleep when he was in grade school. He tries to remember what Mark taught him, to think back on those happy memories as he tries to will himself to calm down. He’s vaguely away of his father watching on, his worried but cool eyes fixed on him, but Patrick would admit that he’s thankful he’s not getting involved, Patrick doesn’t think he could had the overload right now

It takes a moment, what feels like an eternity, when he does calm down. “There you go, sweetie, you’re okay,” she whispers as she kisses his temple. They wait another moment before she continues to speak, “I know about what happen,” she starts again, slowly, calmly. “They called me as soon as they admitted you to Observation. They asked for my permission for one of your counselors to talk to Pete, and I gave the okay. I know you boys have always been the best of friends, which is why I gave them the okay for them to talk to him, because I think he can help. You two have a lot a healing to do after what happened that night that…,” she pauses, and swallows her own tears, “That night that I found you…” she finishes gently, sorrow laced in her voice. “But,” she starts, her voice a little strong, “I could be wrong. I should have asked you first, if it was okay, after everything that happened. Maybe I was wrong to involve him so soon. I’ve been wrong before when it comes to things” Patrick feels her tighten her hold, squeezing him tighter.

As he looks up, he notices that there’s a sadness in her eyes, her eyes a dark and swirling mix of browns colored with memories and misery and guilt. He thinks about her words, and it hits him, it hits him like a truck, as he realized what she meant about “ _being wrong before_ ”.

Before, Patrick would always tell her that he was fine, that the world was right and just, and that he was not in any danger. He always led her to believe that she was safe and sane and happy, and she believed it.

_“I’ve been wrong before…”_

She thought he was fine, but she was wrong, her son wasn’t fine, he was suffering, engulfed by a self-doubt, self-hatred, and misery, so much so that he wanted it to simply stop with just another cut to silence the noise, to make it all go away…

_“Patrick please, I love you, I’ll be there soon, please, baby, don’t do anything, we’ll figure this out, I’ll be there soon.”_

She must have had an inkling, she must have known before he reached his point, but she believed him. She believed him every time, and she found him bleeding out on his bedroom floor.

“M-mom, no,” Patrick chokes out, “You weren’t wrong, I just…” _I couldn’t handle it_ … _I couldn’t tell you the truth_ he nearly says but can’t bring himself to say. Mark always talked about the importance of admitting that there was a problem, about holding some kind of responsibility to your own actions. He never presented it in a harsh way, it was always conversational, but he’s starting understand it more as he hears the guilt lacing his mother’s voice, coloring her warm chocolate eyes. “I just…I didn’t know how to tell you,” he says softly, something lifting off his chest as the words leave his lips. “I didn’t know, but _you_ weren’t wrong, you never were.”

Patricia’s eyes begin to water at his words. She looks like she wants to say something back, wants to make a quiet rebuttal, but Patrick’s dad, puts a hand on her shoulder, causing her to look. “Patrick’s right, Trisha,” he comforts. “You were never wrong, we all know you’re doing the best that you can. And now, Patrick’s getting the help so that he can get better.”

“You’re never wrong, Mom, about me, and about Pete,” Patrick continues, finding a new found strength in his father’s support. “Pete…what happened last week…I just couldn’t handle it….we both acted wrong, but he was with me the whole time until he left…and I…I think Pete can help me get better…”

Patricia, at a loss for words and her eyes shining with tears, simply nods, looking at Patrick and then at her ex-husband. “Okay,” she simply whispers, and Patrick hopes that it eases her doubt and gives her some kind of comfort, much like she does during her visits. He wants to return that favor in some way after everything he’s put her through, but he can tell that she doesn’t believe, that she still holds on to some of the guilt, but...it’s a start. “Okay, boys.” She breathes in deep, grasping onto Patrick’s hands, and then exhaling. “So,” she starts, trying to will the tears from building in her eyes, changing the subject. “Tell me about your roommate. Have you been making friends? 

Patrick can’t help the small upturn of his lips as he welcomes the change in conversation. He tells her about the little group he’s found himself a part of,  about the cookie that Brendon snuck into Observation and how they all managed to visit him to make sure he was okay, as well as about the games and activities he and his makeshift group of friends do on a daily. She smiles brilliantly as he talks about Tyler, and Brendon, the Way brothers, Lynn and Halsey, she she nearly beams as he continues on to talk about Mark and Dr. Lavigne, and seeing her and his dad light up like that, makes him feel that he must be something right.

The three hours pass by in a blink of an eye, and his parents leave, his mom promising to visit whenever she can. “And before I forget, Pete said he’ll come in the afternoon. He just wanted me to make sure you were still okay with that,” she says as they walk back to the visitor’s entrance, Hayley following behind them.

“Yeah, it’ll be okay…I think I feel ready this time,” he sighs with a slight smile. She returns it with one of her own. Patrick moves in to hug his father goodbye, and then wrap his arms around his mother tightly before they turn in their visitor badges to the receptionist. There’s a warmth in the embrace, it’s laced with hope and emotions Patrick can’t say aloud just yet, feelings he can’t bring himself to talk about, even though he feels that he might have just tapped the surface of them today…maybe he should talk to Mark about that during their next session.

All his thought fade away when his mother presses a kiss to the crown of his head with a whispered “I love you. I love you so, so much” into his hair, and it feels so much of _her_ and of _home_. He has to fight back the tears, as he breathes into her shoulder. “I love you too, Mom.”

As they say their last goodbyes and they walk through the exiting doors, his father wrapping a comforting arm around his mom’s shoulder as they walk into the distance, Patrick can’t help but feel… _different_ …a good different if he was going to be honest.

Maybe...maybe this is what healing feels like, at least between him and his mom. He knows he’s not the only one with wounds, with slowly healing scars; he’s starting to see that. The people around him need to heal too, from the wounds he’s inflicted upon them, on his mom...on Pete...but...this could be what healing those wounds feel like….

Hopefully it will feel that way with Pete...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes....six months...Sorry for the delay, but it's finally posted!
> 
> So, this story has always had a personal connection to me for a number of reasons, and in Feburary, I guess I was reminded of those reasons, in a way. 
> 
> While updates might be few and far between, this story will finish eventually, it's just writing it that always seems to be a challenge for me. I want to make sure I give my best in every chapter, and that I'm trying to write the best that I can for those who actually take the time to read this. That all being said, I really appreciate those who have stayed through this story for the last two years or who just stumbled upon this. So from the bottom of my heart, thanks for reading, and we'll see you when I update this again.
> 
> Comments, feedback, and kudos are always welcomed, and also a huge shout out to [Flame_and_Jade](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Flames_and_Jade/pseuds/Flames_and_Jade) for always being the best cheerleader despite her busy schedule and just being the absolute bestest.


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